


300 Minutes

by inthevegaslights



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brallon is brief though sorry fam, Eventual Smut, F/M, M/M, Multi, New York City setting, Pretty boys with too much time and too much money, Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie - Freeform, Ryden, Slow Burn, Way too much symbolism, brallon, noncanon, way too many clues, way too much foreshadowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-11-16 04:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 53,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11246331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthevegaslights/pseuds/inthevegaslights
Summary: Ryan Ross was born into money. He never had to grow up with a single want except for his excessive desire to create and to share. At nineteen he had published his first novel, a frighteningly popular love story that he grew to hate. Eleven years later, Ryan has not written anything else but instead spends his days with a revolving door of lovers and fair weather friends. By the urging of his friend Z Berg, he attends a party thrown by a rapidly rising musician who has earned more money in the past two years than he knows what to do with. While Ryan prefers the company of people not in the celebrity scene, he finds himself strangely drawn to a man who doesn't believe in more things than he believes in.





	1. Prologue

"Hey, it's me. Actually--Did I ever give you my number? I think I did. Maybe. I'm pretty sure I scribbled it on your arm. Wait, no, I told you to get a hold of my agent. No, that was that other guy. Never mind. This is probably the stupidest message I've ever left someone. 

Anyway, the reason I'm calling is--Hold on. 

Here it is. 

So, get this, I'm in this book shop in London, and I'm just kind of looking around and I find this book from like--Shit, it says 2005. So like, fucking twelve years old, yeah? And I'm looking at it and it has this awful cover. Just, flowers and it's like, made to look way older than it is. Like this pretentious fucking love story that's trying to play like it's some sort of work of Victorian art. You should see it. The author doesn't even have a name! They just have their initials like they're fucking Tolkien or something. And I'm just looking at this stupid ass book and reading the synopsis or whatever and for some reason your face popped up in my head. It's dumb, but like. I don't know, I thought you'd appreciate that this ugly ass book on the other side of the world from twelve years ago gave me serious 'you' vibes. 

The summary is kind of--Well, it's very you, too. The way they talk about love. I wonder if a chick or a guy wrote this. Fuck if I know. Doesn't matter. 

Yeah. So like, I'm gonna be in Europe for another month and a half. Finishing up the tour for my last album. Did you hear it? No, probably not. Didn't you say you hated my first album? I'm pretty sure you did. 

Fucking asshole. 

I'm kidding--Maybe. But yeah, so like. I don't know. Give me a call back I guess? Or don't. How long has it been? I don't know. I don't measure that kind of stuff, y'know.   
Hey-- 

Just---Well--- 

Do you even remember?" 

To delete this message, press one, to play this message again, press two.


	2. WKMPHHOMA

Four sixteen in the afternoon. At least, that was what the computer screen told him every time he glanced down at his taskbar from the empty word document he had pulled up on his laptop. How many times had he found himself in this situation? At least several times a week since he was nineteen. The first novel came easily enough. It was the kind of naïve cynicism that could only come from someone who had everything handed to him on a silver platter and hadn't the life experience to know anything but petty heartache. 

Fortunately for him, teenagers ate that shit up. 

That wasn't to say that he was any less proud of his first novel, now that he was thirty with the world's longest case of writer's block. For the longest time all he had to do was just sit in front of a laptop and pour words onto the page. It was easy, it was cathartic. Nineteen year old Ryan Ross was better at words than thirty year old Ryan Ross? No, he didn't believe that. But thirty year old Ryan Ross certainly took great consideration for each word that he chose. He didn't want to be that author who was known for a silly love story that was more soap opera than manifesto. And as much as he appreciated the experience that came with publishing a novel so young, he could safely say that the entire history of him and that god damn book made him far more wary to publish anything new. But fuck, he wanted to write. 

Want and need were two very different things. He wanted to write. He did not need to, for there was no necessity behind his desire. If it weren't for the fact that his first novel sold so well, there was also the fact that Ryan had the good fortune of never having to want for anything. That was a bit of an understatement. In fact, he was filthy fucking rich. Disgustingly rich. Hideously rich. So rich that had he wanted as a teen, he could have published his own book himself. But Ryan was nothing if not vain when it came to his work. 

The Ross name was known on both the west coast where he had grown up and the east coast where he had moved in his early twenties. ("The city is more inspirational!" He had said to his family and friends who had protested his move. "I can't write here, there is nothing for me in Las Vegas.") The west coast knew his name from his family's influence in the Henderson, Nevada community and subsequently their ties to various endeavors in the Vegas hotel and casino game. His father was rich, his grand father was rich, has great grand father was rich. In fact, Ryan couldn't think of a time where anyone in his family hadn't been wealthy. If he were a betting man, he would have wagered that somewhere down the line there was some sort of royalty in his bloodline. 

The east coast knew his name, as well, though only because of Ryan's tendency to bounce from socialite to celebrity in an ongoing game of 'How many people can I get my hands on and discard before I'm banned from social events'. In the seven years he had played this game while living in the Upper East Side, he had yet to find an answer. It seemed like he could get away with anything. Having a handsome face and an endless wallet didn't hurt him, either. 

Four thirty three. Ryan sucked in a breath as he continued to stare at the blank page, the flashing line at the beginning of the page grating on his nerves and marking each second that went by without a word written. Not an idea, not an outline, not a rough sentence. Nothing. And it had been like that for eleven years, going on twelve. The three letters of his name that he had used to write his first novel under went lonely. G.R.R. did not exist outside of that one novel, but Ryan Ross existed. Constantly reminded of the time he was nineteen and pouring his heart open on to a computer screen about a girl whose face he couldn't even remember. If it weren't for the fact that he breathed life into her through that damn book, he would have doubted she even existed. Or maybe he wouldn't have cared, would have remembered her fondly instead of constantly cursing her existence for giving him this stupid case of writer's block. 

Because Ryan took his craft seriously. He had shopped his first novel around to publishers under a pseudonym, as he had so arrogantly wanted to be recognized for his merit rather than his name. Perhaps it wasn't arrogance, but vanity, for Ryan was vain. Even now. His pride and his ego and how people viewed him was something he took great care to protect. He was out to prove something to no one for reasons not even he understood. 

He sucked in a breath, sitting back against the headboard of is mattress as the sleeping body beside him rolled over in their state of unconsciousness and heaved a feminine sigh. Ryan let his eyes wander over to the body instead of his computer screen, vaguely aware of the fact that he couldn't remember her name. A dancer, a ballerina, if he recalled correctly. He could recall Z betting him the night prior that he couldn't take one of the dancers home when she had taken him to a performance in her ever endless search to bring culture to his life. By now he would have thought that Z would know better than to assume that he could fail in bedding someone, male or female. Sometimes he wondered if she just made these silly bets in order to force him to socialize. 

The joke was on her, though. Even without Z's goading, he would have taken someone home. It was better than staring at this god damn computer screen. 

Was the pounding in his head from the liquor the night before or from his own irritation? That line had blurred long ago. Ryan shut the laptop, not in defeat but in defiance as he reached for his cigarette case on the bedside table. Plucking out the last cancer stick, he made his way out to the balcony, cellphone in his opposite hand and lighter on top of that. With an unceremonious fall onto one of the chairs, he let the buzzing of traffic from below try to soothe the ache in his head. 

Summer in New York was unbearable. At least n Vegas, the heat was dry. And though he wasn't the type to sweat, Ryan could feel his skin growing sticky from the humidity hanging thick in the air. He lit up the cigarette and inhaled slowly, exhaling the smoke as he watched it form and disappear in front of his eyes. In all honesty, he didn't care much for smoking, but he did enjoy the aesthetic. 

Four fifty three. He slid open his phone and searched for Z's contact information, only to press the 'call' button. He didn't need to wait but two rings, the confident voice on the other line ringing on the balcony as he hit the speaker phone button. 

"Afternoon, Space Boy. What's this I see with you calling me before the sun goes down?" Her voice settled warmly in his chest, Ryan smiling around his cigarette as he inhaled again only to let the cigarette rest barely used on the ashtray beside him. 

"Can't I miss you? Z Berg, love of my life. Run away with me, settle down with me somewhere in Africa. We'll read each other poetry and spend our nights fucking each other's brains out," Ryan countered, his voice a lazy drawl as if he had been asleep for ten years. 

The low laugh and accompanying squeak that followed from the other line had Ryan laughing, his smile spreading in to a toothy grin as he draped his fingers across his eyes to block out the view of the sun. The throbbing in his head traveled slowly away from his temples to beneath his eyes. 

"Sounds like a dream. And when we run away to Africa, are we going to live in a hut? Or are we going to take up a hotel floor as our marriage home? Maybe we can live in a tent and become friends with the wildlife?" 

"We'll have a mansion. I'll become a Columbian drug lord and you can be my trophy wife." 

Z laughed louder, the sound making him grin wider as he let his thoughts focus on his friend more than the agitation itching under his skin like a rash he couldn't see. 

"We both know neither of us need to be drug lords to afford that kind of life style, handsome. " 

And she was right. Z Berg was no stranger to money. Her family had some sort of stake in the diamond business. Like Ryan she came from money, was raised without a single want. And like Ryan she shared a stale sort of boredom when it came to the world around them. Perhaps that was what drew him to the petite blonde in the first place. While apathy and boredom wasn't a new development in the world of Manhattan's elite, Z had a similar mindset surrounding the world that Ryan had. It was probably why after he'd fucked her, he hadn't kicked her to the curb like everyone else. Her and Dan. 

"How was Miss Tutu? As stuck up in bed as she seemed after last night's performance? I'm glad Keyes didn't join us. He would have chased her off to have you for himself the moment I suggested you loosen that pony tail of hers." The mental image of Dan competing for his attention while Z pushed him to get with the ballerina brought a smile to his face. As much as he adored his friends, they certainly were eccentric. 

He watched the cigarette burn beside him, a steady stream of smoke gradually floating up in a tiny sliver. "A starfish. Laid there, took it. A few 'oo's and 'aa's. She's still asleep, actually."

"Still there?" Z's laughter echoed from the speaker of his phone, the little squeak at the end of every fit relaxing Ryan as he stretched out his arms until his back popped in the process. "Send her home. I'm coming over."

When Z said she was coming over, Ryan knew to clear his schedule. All guests were to be sent home (sans Dan if he were the one to share his bed, as Z enjoyed his company just as much as she did Ryan's), any plans he made were to be ignored, and there was no refusing her. Typically she only came over if she wanted something or had some sort of ulterior motive. She wanted him to do something, that much he could tell. What, exactly, he wasn't sure.

With a dramatic sigh, Ryan cast a wayward glance behind him at the sliding glass door. The ballerina was still asleep, something even he was impressed by considering his own night owl tendencies. "Baby, what exactly are you coming over for?"

The exaggerated gasp of offense that followed had him smirking, pleased that he had gotten somewhat of a rise out of his girl. "I'll tell you when I get there. Now hurry and get rid of the Pillow Princess. I don't want to rub elbows with people who're no fun."

"Mhm--Do I get a kiss when you get here?" 

"Not if you don't do what I say!" And the line went dead. 

Any normal person would have found Z's bossy nature infuriating, would have cut her friendship off the moment she showed no signs of letting up. Ryan, however, had kept her by his side for a period of eight years. She had been his first friend since moving to Manhattan. Well, really she had been his first hook-up. A strange lay in the balcony of one of the Princess Theatres on 52nd street after a performance of Phantom of the Opera. Something he did think of fondly. 

Her adventurous nature meshed well with his reserved one, and it was through Z that he had met Dan Keyes. A Texas oil tycoon's son with more money than one person should have, but wasn't that the case with all of them? They were all attractive and so young and so bored when they had met. And now? Still attractive, still bored, but not quite as young.

"I should just write about them. Truth is stranger than fiction," Ryan grumbled to himself as he picked up the cigarette for a final drag and snuffed it out on the ash tray.

He stood up with a grunt, stretching again as the stiffness in his joints from being slept on top of all night began to catch up with him. As soon as he opened the door back to his bedroom the ballerina stirred, sitting up with a perfect face of make-up and the blankets pulled up to her collar to hide her nude form underneath. That was one tactic women did whenever he was away from the room that he never understood. Why waste your time fixing your make-up to pretend you looked naturally flawless in the morning? And what was with this preconception of modesty that was embedded in the fairer sex that compelled them to cover up when he had seen them in various states of undress and in many different positions the night before?

"I didn't know you were awake," she spoke, voice holding more sleep in it than probably existed as she faked a yawn.

Ryan shut the door behind him and stepped back into his bedroom only to pick up his slacks that had been discarded on the floor the night before so he could slide them on to his impossibly long legs. "Get out," he said calmly enough, his tone holding no animosity.

The ballerina balked, her brows knitted together as she scoffed. "Excuse me?"

"Get out," Ryan repeated as he returned her stunned expression with an uninterested stare. 

"I'm sorry, did I do something--"

"No, I have company coming over and I don't need you here. You can see yourself out."

"I mean--Do I get to see you again? Did you want to grab dinner or drinks later?

"No," Ryan answered, his voice holding that continued tone of indifference. He liked to think of himself as a straight forward person. This wasn't a mind game, or some sort of strange negging tactic to degrade a woman into thinking she wasn't good enough and then sub-sequentially driving her mad with desire for him. He simply didn't care. She'd been fun (alright, so maybe not fun) for the night. Why couldn't people leave it at that?

The woman made a noise in her throat akin to a gasp and a yelp but did not budge. Oh yes, modesty. He'd almost forgotten. 

With a quick scan across the floor he grabbed her dress off the armchair closer to the door, only to toss it at her. "If I remember correctly you weren't wearing any panties or a bra. So I think you should be okay." Now he was being mean. But sometimes it took a little venom to get these people out of his apartment. 

"You are the most despicable man I know, Ryan Ross!" She shouted, pulling the dress over head from beneath the sheets as she shot out from the bed to grab her shoes. "I heard the rumors, but you're ridiculous!"

This old talk. It was half the reason why Ryan didn't bother with women as often anymore. They always too one night stands so painfully seriously. And while he recognized the misogyny behind his beliefs, because Z certainly proved not all women grew attached in such a way, he couldn't shake his bias. The men he fucked weren't nearly as obnoxious. 

If that made him a womanizing asshole, then perhaps he was a womanizing asshole. That still didn't excuse the fact that this woman wouldn't get out of his apartment.

"I have your number, I'll call you if I ever want to be bored to death in bed," he shot back with his inability to keep his mouth to himself. If she was going to sit there and yell at him, he was happy to do it back so long as it meant she'd take a hint and leave.

Fortunately that seemed to be enough, the ballerina offering another scoff in offense as she made her way out of the bedroom and down the hall. It wasn't until he heard the front door slam shut behind her that he began to relax. Good. Now he had some time to clear his head before Z arrived.

Making his way into the bathroom, Ryan flicked the light switch on with a hum of disapproval from how the obnoxiously bright lights lit up the room. He stood there to take in his appearance, leaning in slightly to take a better look in the mirror. It had been at least a month since he'd shaved, the beard on his face no longer scruff but prominent as he brushed his fingers over the hair. The bags under his eyes had darkened, most likely from the nights he'd spent partying with Z for the past week as she was on some sort of mission to get him to socialize more than he normally enjoyed. His chest and ribs were covered in a few hickeys, standing out more against the pale skin and drawing a laugh from his lips. Little love letters left on his skin only to be forgotten once they healed. They weren't all from the ballerina. He'd taken enough people home this week to know that.

He knew that if he greeted Z in just his slacks and nothing else she'd make some snarky comment. The Queen of the Upper East Side didn't like to hang around anyone who was less than interesting and presentable. So he spent his time waiting by cleaning himself up. Teeth brushed, hair meticulously stylized to look effortless, and freshly showered, Ryan threw on the nearest button up and a fresh pair of slacks just in time for the doorbell to ring. 

"It's open," he spoke through the call box. Why Z always rain the doorbell was a mystery to him. She had long since had a key to his place. 

It was the clicking of her heels against the wood floor that caught his attention, first. A tap, tap, tapping that annoyed most people but proved comforting to him. And before he could even turn to greet her he heard her click her tongue in a sign of obvious disapproval. 

"Oh, what is it, now? I'm not lounging around in my boxers like last time. You couldn't possibly have something to complain about," Ryan groaned as he turned to face the tiny socialite. 

"You still haven't shaved," Z spoke simply enough, tossing her bag on to Ryan's bed as she took a seat beside it.

Elizabeth Berg was the most beautiful woman he had ever met. Sure, it didn't come without bias, but by anyone's standards she was a vision. Petite, small frame. Blond hair and a BOHO chic sense of style that was better fitted for the west coast than it was for the east. She never went anywhere without looking completely put together and had a commanding presence to her that Ryan appreciated. Had they both not been so terribly incompatible in the relationship department, he would have proposed. 

Would a marriage arranged just for the amazing sex be considered a viable reason? What if a mutual love of toying with people were added on top of that? Probably not.

"I like the beard," Ryan argued, his fingers reaching up to brush lightly at his cheeks and chin as he narrowed his eyes at her threateningly. 

"You look homeless. No one can see your pretty face," Z countered as she patted the spot beside her. Ryan complied with ease, bending his much taller frame over so he could nose the crook of her neck fondly. 

He could already tell by the end her visit he would be beardless. She'd given him so much shit already over it and though he had been steadfast in remaining with the hair, Z Berg always got her way. "You smell good," he made sure to change the subject, knowing that compliments were the way to go. 

Z laughed, the squeak at the end earning a grin from Ryan as he smiled into her neck. Without a second thought she reached up to scratch through his scalp, the acrylic of her nails bringing goosebumps to the surface of his skin. "I don't smell like Victoria Secret perfume like your last hook-up. Of course I smell good. Have you gotten any writing done, Lover Boy?"

It was a rare occasion that Z brought up his writing. Ryan liked to keep his identity a secret, his disgust for his teenage era novel preventing him from wanting to gloat about it. None of his friends knew that he was the author of such a wildly popular love story with more Romeo and Juliet vibes than the damn Bard, himself. No one except for Z. 

Maybe the woman was psychic. It was within the first six months of him living in New York and the second date he had taken Z on. An aquarium, if he remembered correctly. And under the neon glow of a tank filled with starfish, she had turned to him and said "I loved your novel, by the way." She had said it was his way of speaking that had her figure it out. But really, the romantic in him believed it was just that their souls spoke to one another on a deeper level than any other human he'd met. At times they were almost frighteningly on the same level. 

But that was also why they never woke out as anything more than friends that occasionally hooked up. 

"Not a page. I don't even know what I want to write. I just want to write--Something. I don't know. More than a stupid romance and more than all the tired cliches I've seen for the past, what, eleven years? Twelve? Fuck, Z. It's like I have a feeling of what I want but I can't put it out into words. It just exists," he grumbled into her skin, his eyes falling shut as Z's nails dragged their way down to the nape of his neck. 

"I have an idea, then. Come to this party with me, tonight."

"No, no Z. No more parties. I'm partied out."

She clucked her tongue and he brought his head up to look at her almost immediately. "Just this last one. It's in Uptown."

Ryan could only groan. Uptown? Wasn't that simply where all the celebrities lived and like to party? He wasn't the type to enjoy celebrities. He liked people who had their name matter simply by existing. There was something narcissistic and agitating about those who earned their money through fame. But this was also from the person who didn't want people to know he'd written a best seller at nineteen. 

"Why? Why Uptown? What could possible be so interesting there?" He asked, falling back on the mattress to glare up at his smiling girl. 

"Have you ever heard of that song on the radio? God--What's it called? The really obnoxiously poppy one that we heard when we were grabbing a drink in SoHo? All the girls lost their shit about how cute the guy singing it was and all the guys knew like, every word?"

He frowned in disgust, his tongue poking out from between his teeth as he eyed Z up and down as if she were about to jump up and catch him, "Yes...?"

"He has a place in Uptown. The artist. Apparently his parties are absolutely insane. He's been in the city for like, a week, and it's all anyone has been talking about. Langley met him at an album launch party and has been at his place almost every night. The guy never stops. Just a revolving door of people and parties. I guess he finished touring or something and is just out to lose his mind and I'd like to see that," Z explained, laughing loudly as Ryan groaned in absolute disgust. 

He sat back up only to rest his weight on his palms, the glare fixed on his face unchanging. "You know I hate those kinds of parties. You want me to come with you tonight and see some sort of pop star hopefully have a mental break down or OD because he doesn't know how to handle his liquor or his drugs?"

Z shook her head, her lower lip jutting out in a fake pout as she reached out to cup Ryan's cheeks gingerly between her finges. "No, I want you to come because you're my best friend and I always have fun with you."

Of course she did. Ryan liked to think of himself as someone who people enjoyed being around, if not for his looks and his money then his amazing personality. The narcissism behind his beliefs, however, were lost on him. 

"It's going to be some brainless musician with the ego the size of his multi-million dollar penthouse. Why the fuck would I want to be around that crowd?"

"Because if you keep hanging around dive bars in Greenwich Village in the hopes of being 'inspired' you're going to be nothing but a tired cliche. Look at this beard!" Z groaned, her fingers pulling at the hair as he yelped in pain only to gently push her hands away. "Come with me to this one party. Just this one and I'll stop dragging you out every night, and you can go back to drinking whiskey alone in the Village pretending like you're some sort of tortured soul."

If those words had come from anyone else, they wouldn't have been nearly as charming. "I don't know, Z--"

"Dan is coming, too," she pushed. Of course she'd throw his name in there. Dan was always a selling part for Ryan because it meant if he couldn't go home with any of the men or women he met at the party and if Z had gone off with some girl and couldn't go home with him, he'd almost be guaranteed to enjoy Dan's company. 

"Fuck it. Fine. I'll go, but I'm not dressing up. I'm wearing this," Ryan snapped, the irritation dripping from his voice in waves as Z's face lit up more than the lights in his bathroom. 

"That's alright, but you're fucking shaving."

He couldn't even protest. There was no time. In moments she had dragged him to the bathroom, only to settle him down on the edge of his bathtub. His glare followed Z across the bathroom as she spread the shaving cream across his face, the razor in her right hand as she focused on getting his face appropriately lathered up. Leave it to Z to be able to get him in a bathroom with a damn blade in her hand. Truly, this woman was remarkable. 

As she began to carefully slide the blade against his face, she spoke, "The party, by the way. It's Brendon Urie's. In case you were curious."

"I wasn't," Ryan answered as she pulled the blade from his skin to wipe it off. "What time is it?"

"Eight fifteen. Now hold still."


	3. IIKWTL

Manhattan at night always reminded him of the strip. The overdose of neon and the light pollution that prevented the stars from coming out and the millions of tourists wandering around with their heads so far in the clouds they hit anyone within a two foot radius of themselves. The only difference had to be that while the tourists in New York City were distracted by the flashing lights and skyscrapers, Las Vegas tourists were distracted by the alcohol in their blood and the beer in their hand as they wandered the strip. Open container laws, what a joke.

He found the skyscrapers more comforting than the hotels. Alley ways and nooks and crannys to get lost in. Dive bars and diners open 24/7 without the threat of running into a pack of drunk brides maids screeching about this or that. New York was the city that never slept, but not in the way that Las Vegas never did. And for that, he was grateful.

Despite how hot and humid it was outside even at nine twenty at night, Ryan pressed his forehead to the glass of the town car with a light hum as it proved to cool him down. He wasn't looking forward to being cramped in some overly showy apartment for the next how many hours. In the distance of his mind he could hear Z talking, most likely about their host for the night that he shared no interest in. He closed his eyes and wondered if it would be possible for him to fall asleep and Z leave him to rest. Truly, partying all night and sleeping all day didn't have the appeal it had when he was in his 20s.

"Ryro. Ryro, are you listening?"

The nickname pulled him from his fit of self-pity, Ryan opening his eyes to look at the woman perched beside him with her disappointed gaze. The corners of his lips twitched, unable to hold back the chuckle that rose from the back of his throat.

"No," he answered honestly, Z rolling her eyes in response.

"Come here, your tie is crooked," she beckoned him and Ryan obeyed with that same, sleepy expression on his face. 

Her fingers reached up to pull the tie up, threading the fabric through itself carefully to get the knot just right. "You still haven't given me that kiss I asked for over the phone," Ryan made sure to remind her as that lazy smile faded into a more confident smirk. "You could do it here, you know."

"Who says I want to kiss you, love?" Z countered with a smirk of her own, neatly tucking the tie beneath his suit jacket as she held him back by his shoulders to take a proper look at him. 

"The fact that I can make your legs shake more than anyone else ever has."

Ryan choked as she reached up to tighten his tie around his neck only to loosen it back to it's comfortable state. Leave it to Z to turn him down. And here he was thinking he probably could get her to fuck him in the car with the driver watching. It wouldn't be the first time he'd tipped him significantly in exchange for discreteness. 

"Shut up. If you're good and I don't have anyone else to bring home by the end of the night, I'll fuck your brains out. But you're going to this party, stop trying to weasel your way out when you already promised me you'd come. Dan is already there, so it's not like you'll have too insufferable of a time," Z sighed. She may have been right, but it never hurt to try. Ryan wasn't used to not getting his way but her ability to say no was part of her charm in his eyes.

"Mmmhm," he hummed in defeat, rubbing over the scruff of his beard. He had managed to at least get Z to leave stubble for him as Ryan had long since grown tired of just how childish his face was without at least some hair on his face. That, and he enjoyed the fact that Z absolutely hated his facial hair. Even now he could feel her eyes boring in to him in distaste at the hair still left on his face despite her efforts to get him completely clean shaven.

She cleared her throat and Ryan's attention was back on her. "As I was saying. This party. It's been going on for, what, a week, Langley said? He finished his touring and got a place in the city and has just been going insane every night. Just music and booze and drugs and sex. Do you think he even sleeps?"

Of course. Young men who received fame and fortune later in life. Ryan never understood their desire to blow threw their earnings as if keeping a hold of it was something taboo. He'd seen musicians and actors who were at the peak of their career only to stumble in to debt and despair. There was something frustrating about people who weren't born into it, those who adapted the role of "celebrity." They were ungrateful, in his eyes. A kind of self-centered air that Ryan could never appreciate. Confidence was fine, arrogance was not.

By the sounds of things he'd give it a year before this musician became a has been. Z and Dan shared a similar philosophy as him when it came to people who newly entered the realm of too much money and too much time. Ungrateful, entitled, naive. But Z loved a good breakdown. It didn't surprise him that she only invited Ryan at what appeared to be the end of this man's spiral. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that she had probably been invited to the party the very first night but had no interest in seeing a starlet stroke his own ego. It was the fall she wanted to witness, and Ryan could admit he was curious, too.

There was something beautiful about seeing someone who used to be at the top of the world fall to the concrete. Shattered, twisted, deformed and only somewhat resembling who they were before the fame and before the money. People that high above didn't take just themselves, down, either, when they finally hit the ground. No, when you're that far up you took out everything around you when you reach the street.

It was why his life had been so easy with this kind of setting: he couldn't lose what he was born into, already.

"Maybe we'll be lucky and not see the pop star, at all. They'll probably be so many people we won't know who he is," Ryan spoke up finally, skating his fingers through his hair as Z's squeaky laugh hit his ears. 

"I don't know. Whenever I take you anywhere, you always seem to attract the host. Who doesn't want to say hello to Ryan Ross?"

"People who don't do their research and understand who the powerful people are."

The car drew to a stop in front of one of the high rise buildings. Ryan didn't wait for the driver to open the door for him, offering a muttered 'thank you' as he pulled himself out and offered his hand for Z to take. Shutting the door behind her, Ryan held his arm out for her to wrap her own around as he lead her towards the front door of the apartment complex. They didn't need to be buzzed in, the attendant at the front desk able to see by their expensive clothes alone that they were more than likely renting a place in the building or at the very least heading to a party.

But as soon as they walked in, arm in arm, the woman's eyes widened in obvious recognition. While Z and Ryan weren't celebrities in the common knowledge sense, people who frequented the inner circles of New York City either by employment or their own wealth knew who they were. It was hard not to, when most of the people bumped into one another and exchanged gossip more than high schoolers. 

Ryan simply offered a smile in recognition, following Z's lead towards the elevator. He squeezed one of her arms wrapped around his own, peering at the daint watch she wore around her wrist. 9:55. If he could get home in bed by one it would give him a good amount of time to get laid and if he weren't drunk enough, time to try and put something down on paper. Anything. Though if eleven years told him anything, he'd probably still return home blitzed and in Dan's arms.

As soon as Z hit the button for the top floor, Ryan groaned. Typical. The kid would be someone who bought a penthouse at the top of a ridiculously tall complex. "If I get out of this without meeting this guy, I'll consider it a success."

"Don't be such a party pooper. If we're lucky you'll run into him in the midst of a bender. I bet we could get him to try things he's never tried before," Z suggested with a wiggle of her brows, Ryan's eyes narrowing at her in a quiet demand for her to show a little decency. 

"Please. You know I don't share."

"No, not unless Dan is involved."

"That's different, we have a mutual understanding," Ryan argued as he leaned down to press a soft kiss to the corner of Z's mouth, purposefully rubbing his scruff against her smooth cheek that earned him a horrified squeak. 

"I'm shaving you clean in your sleep," she hissed as the doors opened to the top floor.

Interesting. Usually people had to be buzzed in by the owner of the penthouse to prevent unwanted people from making their way in. Clearly the function had been disabled, most likely from the fact that this Brendon Urie guy had been throwing a week long rager and couldn't be bothered to filter his guests.

"Let's see how many party crashers we can count in the first ten minutes," Ryan scoffed, the headache from earlier reappearing from the sudden burst of noise via the obnoxious music playing and the hundreds of voices. Several thousand square feet of agitation. Just what he wanted. 

"You're assuming that anyone in a dress from H&M could even get in here," Z corrected as she lead him inside, the pair pushing past couples and singles and groups of people all with drinks in their hand and conversation on their lips. The hairs on the back of Ryan's neck stood up.

It only took a few moments for a hand to grab him by the shoulder, Ryan jerking his head to glare daggers at the person with the bad fortune of touching him. As soon as he made eyes with the tall blond in front of him, however, he relaxed, though the laugh that spilled from the man's lips like melted honey irritated him more than he would confess. 

"Dan. How long have you been here?" Z spoke first, her arms still wound around Ryan in an obvious display of possession.

"About an hour. Langley has been here since Wednesday, though. I don't think I can remember the last time someone went on a bender this long. Have we placed bets on how long before he lands in rehab?" Dan asked, leaning in to press a kiss to both of Z's cheeks while his eyes remained glued to Ryan.

The last time he had seen Dan had been right before his trip to Texas to visit his parents a month prior. Z had thrown a little get together for him and all his closest friends at her place and he and Ryan spent the entire time with their tongues down one another's throats in various rooms of her home. As per usual. Dan fit in the rare category of Ryan's heart neatly labeled 'potentially.' Potentially a good match, much like Z. But while Z and Ryan were incompatible in terms of personality, Ryan and Dan were incompatible because they were too similar. So there they lived in his heart. Potentially a lover. Potentially a partner. Potentially perfect. Potentially.

"Not yet. I like to reserve that kind of betting for when we actually meet the man of the hour," Z broke his train of thought, her voice always a pull that he couldn't resist. 

"I saw him out and about. Kind of hard to miss, kid has the loudest mouth I've ever heard. Just Ryan's type," Dan smirked, an arm wrapping around the younger man's waist as he gave his hip a gentle squeeze.

Being sandwiched between Z and Dan may have been uncomfortable to anyone with an ounce of sanity, but Ryan found himself strangely comforted. He could ignore how loud it was, how packed with people the apartment was. He liked it here. Here felt good, whereas anywhere else in the damn party felt like a death sentence to his already dwindling patience. 

"Does anyone know what the guy looks like?" Z asked, a frown set on her lips. 

"Not a clue. Probably looks like every other pop star out there. Then again so does every man here, regardless," Ryan scoffed, motioning with his head towards the party raging around them. "Not my kind of crowd. It reeks of 'I just hit it rich and I want to blow my load before I've had a chance to invest.' I hate these kinds of people."

"You hate everyone, present company excluded," Dan interjected with a roll of his eyes. 

"You can always tell if Ryan likes you based on whether he's fucked you and kept you around. Hasn't fucked you? He doesn't like you. Has fucked you and never called back? At least you were hot, but he still doesn't like you," Z continued with a toothy smile. 

They weren't exactly wrong.

He could hear them continue to make small talk about their host and the modern design of the apartment and how many people were there, but paid no mind. It wasn't his fault that he held a certain level of standard when it came to the people he kept in his life. 

Z had been his ride or die since day one, and Dan just clicked with him in ways that he wasn't used to. The first time they had all hooked up, they didn't leave the bedroom for almost an entire day. Z preferred women as did Ryan, and Dan solely enjoyed the company of men but the three of them just clicked. Like puzzle pieces, only they didn't form a complete picture. Things were still messing for each of them, a kind of emptiness and a desire to connect to make sense of everything around them but still holding that need to be together. So they stuck together, doing their best to fill that emptiness in one another. 

Boredom. That's what it had to be. They were all just bored. Too much money, too much time. Ryan at least had his writing, even if he couldn't form the words he so desperately wanted to get out. He could scream. That's what it felt like, at least. A burning in his chest and his lungs and the pit of his stomach that wanted to escape from his throat. Like he had screamed. For years and years and no one heard because not even he understood what he was screaming about. 

So he spent his time sharing his bed. He wanted to pick them apart, steal pieces of them, of their personalities of their life stories of anything so he could create. Men, women. It didn't matter. Gender and sex never mattered to him, he always knew where to lay and what to say to get them there in his bed but at the end of the day he wanted them to hopefully inspire him. It was all the same, in the matter of sexual identities. 

He was looking for a muse, but all he got were borrowed traits that he'd either use or throw away. It was fitting, though. That he wanted to take parts of people to fill the emptiness he had in his head. Maybe he was a little heartless.

"If it isn't my favorite trio. About time you showed up. I was begging Z to get her little ass down here for days."

Sandwiched between his two blonds, Ryan found himself greeted by a brunette with impossibly long legs. Langley Fox. Z couldn't have detached herself faster from Ryan, her arms winding their way around the woman's neck to pull her in for a kiss. He couldn't help but laugh at how careful the kiss was on Z's part, his girl clearly making sure not to ruin her red lipstick or get it messily against Langley's unpainted ones.

"We'd have come sooner but I knew Ryan wouldn't come down unless there was a chance he'd get to see a melt down," Z smiled, pulling away from Langley to cast a haughty look over her shoulder in Ryan's direction. 

"From what, Brendon? I don't know. The guy's kind of amazing. I've seen him maybe a couple of times in the past two days and any time I see him he's just this ball of energy. Don't know if it's coke or molly or just his personality, but he's got energy, y'know? Endless," Langlyey argued, arms wrapping their way around Z's waist as she pulled the petite woman into her chest. 

Ryan had to wonder that if whenever Z and Langley hooked up, if she closed her eyes did she think of him? Not that he thought of her.

"Speaking of substances. I need a drink. We've been here how long and I haven't had a drink? What kind of party is this?" Z argued, her lower lip jutting forward in that exaggerated pout of hers that was sign enough for Ryan that she was trying to get someone alone. Clearly it wasn't him, not with the way she had her eyes fixed on Langley. "Where's the liquor?"

"C'mon, I'll show you. If you can't find someone just handing drinks out then they've got a stupid amount of booze in the dining room," Langley ushered Z forward and in to the mass of people, Z casting a wave over her shoulder at the men she had deserted in favor of Langley. Typical. They'd been there maybe twenty minutes and she'd found someone to dig her nails in to. Which left Ryan with Dan. 

Had she planned that? Sometimes, he had to wonder.

Ryan turned his attention to Dan, ignoring the wave of desire that washed over him the moment their eyes met. How one person could look so good, leaned up against some celebrity's couch with a beer in his hand and that stupid smirk on his face. It took every ounce of his self-control not to just shove his tongue down his throat right then and there. Ryan prided himself in being the one that people sought after. He didn't have to put out signs that he was interested in someone, because everyone by nature was interested in him. People were drawn to the brooding, silent type. The quiet intellectual that no one could get through. People wanted to be that one to get through, and Ryan let them believe they could before he tossed them aside.

But Dan Keyes. Dan drove him insane in a way he couldn't even describe. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that there would be an entire character in whatever novel he decided to write completely dedicated to Dan fucking Keyes. With his southern charm and confident demeanor. He commanded a room when he entered it, didn't have to worry about not fitting in because everyone naturally gravitated towards him. He had the type of relaxed charm that people fought to portray but always came off as frighteningly insincere. 

"So, how was Texas? Mommy and daddy still in the dark about your love for fucking men?" Ryan asked, swiping the bottle of beer from Dan's grasp only to chug it down in a few swallows. 

Dan only laughed, the cheap dig at his sexuality not bothering him. He had always been comfortable with his sexuality, though being the son of a long line of oil tycoons meant that he had to keep his relations in the dark from his parents unless he wanted to be cut off from his trust fund. A fact that Ryan liked to bring up, if only because he wanted Dan to feel as irritated around him as he did around Dan. 

"I can't complain. Spent a week by the pool and celebrated dear ol' dad's birthday. Why do you ask? Concerned that I've gone and gotten myself an actual boyfriend and I can't spend my days with you, tossing each other around?" He asked with that same smug expression that made Ryan want to simultaneously want to slap it off of him and shove hm against the nearest flat service against his own body.

Ryan began to walk, interested in getting a drink that wasn't already half finished and Dan followed suit. "No, simply making an observation."

They weaved their way in and out of the growing crowd, Ryan mentally noting just how many people were there. If it weren't for the fact that the home was the entire top floor, he was sure that the fire marshal would have been called. There was clearly a few amount of violations taking place here in terms of max capacity, but everyone was too drunk or too high to care. 

The scores of bodies only made the atmosphere that much more uncomfortable for him, Ryan unaware that he was sweating (and he never sweat) until he felt Dan's fingers brushing a bead that trickled down the nape of his neck with the back of his fingers. He was sure that he could see the goosebumps that rose from the simple touch. 

"What brings you to a party like this, anyway? This isn't your scene," Ryan commented as he spotted someone walking around with a tray of drinks. An open bar in the dining area and actual attendants? This guy really was trying to spend as much money as he could in as fast a time as possible.

Dan swiped two of the glasses from the attendant, handing Ryan the drink as he watched him take a drink. Whiskey, thank God. No mixer, no fruity cocktail that would result in a worse hangover than he would have gotten on just the amber liquid alone. At least he had taste. 

"Z invited me. Said you were coming, mentioned who was throwing it. I figured I may as well make an appearance, especially since everyone else was. You may be a recluse but I like to continue my streak of party invites by actually attending a few," Dan watched as Ryan tossed the whiskey back like it were a shot rather than simply a drink neat. Someone had their nerves worked up. 

"Besides," Dan continued, his eyes scanning the bustling halls and living area as people danced and spoke in loud, slurred voices. "It's interesting, isn't it? A week long party. No complaints from the people that live below--I wonder if he has that area purchased, as well."

He had a point. If he lived below some pompous popstar throwing a one hundred and sixty eight long party, he would have been livid. Gotten the little prick evicted. But yet here they were, talking and observing as if they were at a night club and not someone's home. 

"There's one way to find out," Ryan smirked, an idea forming in his head. A way to enjoy Dan's company while simultaneously snooping around. What a fantastic combination.

Dan arched a brow in confusion, watching as Ryan snatched another whiskey from the same attendant as he walked by and tossed that back, as well. The liquor burned down his throat and settled comfortably in the pit of his empty stomach as he grabbed hold of Dan's wrist to tug him out towards the elevator once again. 

"Ryan, we're not leaving, already," Dan argued, drink still in his hand as Ryan simply looked at him with that taunting, confident smirk. 

"You're right. We're not," he agreed, pressing the button for the floor beneath.


	4. SOTCIYK

"Are you sure about this?"

"I swear to God if you don't shut up and fuck me I'm going to make you walk out there with that hard on in your jeans, Weekes!"

He couldn't quite recall how he had gotten himself locked in one of his bathrooms. If memory served him correctly, he'd spotted Dallon earlier on in the evening. At first Brendon had been chatting up a pair of girls, both talking about how they were singers that wanted to get their foot in the door. He wasn't stupid, of course he knew they were trying to butter him up for some sort of career advantage but he liked the attention. Like the way they kept complimenting him and how the brunette with the pretty eyes kept eye fucking him into next week.

 

Had they gotten ther maybe fifteen minutes earlier, they would have had a chance. He was bored enough and drunk enough to try and talk one of the label executives wandering around in to signing a pair of doe eyed girls. But unfortunately for their shot at fame, someone stealing attention from him proved a distraction. And if there was one thing that Brendon couldn't stand, it was when someone got more attention than him.

And it was Dallon, all tall and handsome and far too confident looking. He'd met him before, earlier on in both their careers. The man fronted some sort of rock group and Brendon had approached him with an off hand comment about how he admired the fact Dallon played bass as well as did the vocals for his band. Dallon had smiled and complimented Brendon's own work, fingers playing with a drink in his hand like he was afraid it would jump out and bite him if he let it go or even bothered to drink it. Of course, it wasn't the drink that he had to worry about.

Because Brendon took an immediate disliking to him. The fact that this man walked in like he owned the room, how he smiled and spoke politely to everyone. The way he could see people whispering excitedly about the new guest. No, he didn't like that. He could remember excusing himself from the two wannabe singers and made a beeline for Dallon. His brain just compelled him to bring Dallon down a few pegs, even though he was clearly not the least bit conceited or arrogant about his fame. He was just--confident.

Brendon hated him.

"Dallon, long time no see," he had greeted him, voice all sunny and upbeat as he threw his arms around him and nuzzled his nose fondly into his neck as Brendon was wont to do whenever he embraced someone.

"Bren, I see you've made yourself at home in Manhattan," Dallon returned, playfully rustling his hair like someone would a child. Brendon's stomach turned in disgust.

Dallon had went on to talk about the tour he was currently in town for, his band having booked a show at the Garden for tomorrow night. He spoke of the cities he'd been in, the fans he'd met, stories about groupies and roadies and bandmates. A small crowd had formed to listen to him speak, Dallon's presence something that demanded attention but in a way that was more endearing than it was overtly powerful. Brendon pretended like he hung on his every word, watching him with wide, brown eyes that Dallon found hard to pull away from.

In all honesty, Dallon made him sick. By nature Brendon didn't get along with people in the industry. When he had first started out in the scene, he'd been in a band. A three piece unit with him on guitar and vocals, a bassist, and a drummer. That had lasted maybe six months before Brendon broke away to form a different band, figuring that maybe he just didn't get along with those particular people. The second band lasted only two months, and the next only three weeks. That's when Brendon discovered that maybe it wasn't the bandmates that were the issue. Maybe he just wasn't designed to work with others. 

And he didn't mind that in the least. He liked working alone, calling the shots, approving what he wanted to do without compromising his artistic integrity with other people. Clearly whatever he thought was good for him worked, because he had a number one album under his belt with his solo career and had just wrapped up his solo tour in both the states and in Europe. You couldn't go anywhere without hearing some top ten hit sung by Brendon Urie.

But Dallon? Dallon Weekes? His music wasn't even that good. It was all he could think about as he pretended to listen to his stories, all smiles and batting eyelashes. His band sounded like every other alternative band that existed. There was no way he could have picked out his work from a playlist. And yet here everyone was, listening to him, worshiping him like he was some sort of God. This was his party, wasn't it? Not Dallon's? 

He wanted to remind him of that. That this wasn't about Dallon Weekes. This was about Brendon Urie. Everything was about Brendon Urie when he was in the room.

Within the first ten minutes of conversation, Brendon was making passes. Obvious passes. The kind of passes that would be seen as desperate if it had came from anyone other than Brendon Urie, because he was too handsome and too famous to be desperate. All he had to do was throw a rock into a crowd and whoever it would hit would fall on their knees for him. 

He liked the way Dallon flushed. How flustered he got that Brendon was so blatantly hitting on him. One of those types that weren't used to guys flirting with them, he assumed. Brendon didn't care about the concept of sexual identity. At a young age he learned that it wasn't about what you had in your pants, because he loved the attention. If a woman or a man wanted to give it to him, so be it, so long as they worshiped him like he deserved to be worshiped. But the way Dallon kept looking at him, how his breath would hitch ever so slightly when Brendon's tongue came out to wet his lips, or how he'd groan softly when he cocked his hips enough that the sliver of skin separated by his t-shirt and jeans poked out, was evidence enough that he was willing to play whatever game Brendon wanted to throw at him.

And with only a little persuasion on Brendon's part, he'd gotten Dallon into the bathroom before they were all over one another.

"Fuck, you're tall," Brendon grunted, head swimming from the alcohol in his stomach and the intoxicating feeling of being trapped against a wall and someone as tall as Dallon. Had he a more domineering personality and wasn't so God damn welcoming, he was sure he would have been pawing at his cock faster than he was already. The sound of Dallon's labored breath in his ear as he worked his fingers against him sent little waves of pleasure through him, drawing sigh after sigh from his lips as he glanced down to take in just how big Dallon was. 

"You know, I would have thought for how tall you are, you'd be a bit bigger," he hummed, the disappointment in his voice palpable as his thumb dug down firmly against the swollen head that earned him a low hiss from Dallon. 

"What? What was that?" Dallon grunted, clearly far too distracted by Brendon's fingers to fully register the insult slung his way.

Brendon laughed as he pressed a little closer to the already panting man, his fingers slowly working up and down his shaft his palm pressed slow circles against his already leaking tip. "Do you always get this worked up by just a hand job, D? Pay attention when I'm talking to you."

Dallon nodded deftly, the strangled gasps leaving his throat hint enough that he was probably a little too excited by the fact that Brendon of all people was touching him. He could guess that he probably didn't have too many sexual experiences with men, and the way Brendon kept touching all the right spots alone only added fuel to the already growing fire in Dallon's gut. 

"D," Brendon murmured softly, pressing his lips to the older man's as he coaxed his tongue into his mouth. He licked at his tongue, making sure to draw it completely into his mouth as he sucked on the wet muscle slowly. Dallon moaned fully into his mouth, his hips bucking forward in short, frustrated movements to get at Brendon's hand only for the smaller man to pull his lips away with a wet 'smack.' "D," he repeated until he looked down at him, Brendon catching his own bottom lip between his teeth as he looked up at him with eager eyes. "Do you wanna fuck me?"

The moan that fell from Dallon's lips was downright pornographic. But it was the sheer want in his eyes that turned Brendon on. How he looked like he could devour him whole, that expression someone wore when they clearly had never wanted something so badly in their entire life. Brendon lived for that moment. Worship me, worship me. 

"Do you?" He asked again with a little whine, his fingers dropping away from Dallon's cock to go towards his jeans as he began to work them open. 

"I--I've never done anything like this before. With--"

Of course he hadn't. Brendon knew that from the first time they spoke. And if that wasn't obvious enough, the way that Dallon trembled in front of him was exhibit B. 

"Shh, here, sit back. I'll do the work for you, baby," he reassured him, pulling the lid of the toilet seat down as he pushed Dallon down to sit. He had to admit, though every fiber of his being wanted to slap Dallon for thinking he could steal focus from Brendon at his own damn party, the man was certainly attractive looking up at him like that with his hard cock peeking out from the slit of his slacks. 

Brendon wasted no time in getting his jeans down past his thighs, the way Dallon's face reddened ever so slightly making him laugh. Straight boys and their confusion when they find out they want to fuck a pretty guy. 

"Gimme your hand," he instructed, watching as Dallon lifted his hand towards him almost immediately. At least his fingers were nice, Brendon taking a moment to nuzzle his knuckles fondly as he watched Dallon with dark eyes. He licked a strip up Dallon's index finger, only to slowly fit his first three digits past his lips. This he enjoyed, the look of sheer want on a person's face as his mouth hinted at what it could do. The way he took those long digits to the second knuckle with ease, lips red and spit slick as he sucked and licked lewdly along Dallon's fingers. Clearly Dallon was interested, the way his cock twitched telling Brendon what Dallon's voice couldn't. 

He pulled his mouth away carefully, only to guide his hand behind him as he brushed the spit slicked fingers against his hole. Dallon's breath hitched again and Brendon smiled, leaning down to murmur hotly against his ear, "You're gonna have to stretch me, first. You don't wanna hurt me, do you?"

"Yes," Dallon groaned softly, and Brendon had to wonder if he meant he wanted to see him in pain or if he was merely agreeing. He didn't have time to dwell too long on it, as Dallon pushed all three of his fingers in Brendon at once, his hands shooting out to grip his shoulders tightly as he gasped out. So maybe Dallon was in to a little pain, because he certainly hadn't expected that. Not that he was complaining. 

Brendon worked his hips backwards to meet the slow fucking of Dallon's fingers, his breathing coming out in short, little breaths as he balanced himself against those broad shoulders. To his surprise, Dallon wasted no time in finger fucking him properly, the digits bending and pulling inside of him in ways that sent little jolts down his spine. He could feel himself sobering up just a bit, the desire to get off trumping his want for alcohol. As soon as Dallon's fingers accidentally brushed against that one spot, Brendon cried out, his hips working whorishly backwards as his eyes fluttered. 

"Th-there.. That spot right there?" Brendon gasped out, his lips brushing against Dallon's ear with every syllable. 

"Yeah? This one right here?" Dallon countered, clearly gaining more confidence as his fingers pressed down on it once again. 

"Fuck yes--I want you to hit that spot with your dick as hard and as fast as you can, over and over," he demanded, Dallon wasting no time in pulling his fingers away to hurry up and get to the main act. Brendon gave a small grunt as he realized he was at a loss for lubricant and condoms in this bathroom, but at this point he was also past the point of no return.

Oh, well. Looks like he'd be feeling this for a bit. 

He leaned down, Dallon giving a confused sort of groan before Brendon spat lewdly down against his cock. He spread the saliva against him for a form of shoddy lubricant, anything to make the penetration somewhat easy for himself. But he'd be a liar if he said he didn't enjoy the stretch and stinging. 

"Move your hips up when I'm down on your dick, D," Brendon demanded, moving to straddle the older man's hips so that his back was facing his chest. With his fingers gripping the base of Dallon's cock, he lowered himself down carefully on to Dallon, the whine in his throat dying as he got him to bottom out. So maybe he was a bit of a cock slut. Not that anyone he ever took to bed seemed to care. 

Brendon rolled his hips down with ease, reaching out behind himself to grab hold of Dallon's shoulder for something to hold on to. He enjoyed the way he could lean back, the back of his head nestled neatly against the taller man's throat as he rode him eagerly. By the way Dallon didn't move but instead grabbed hold of his hips and gasped, he was clearly too blissed out to remember Brendon's earlier demand. If it wasn't such a stroke to his ego, he would have been agitated. 

"You okay back there?" Brendon gasped out, the laugh in his voice obvious as he moved his hips faster, the sound of both of their skin slapping against one another far more pleasing to his ears than any of Dallon's stupid songs. 

"So fucking okay," Dallon reassured breathlessly, the hold on Brendon's hips damn near bruising. 

"Move your hips, D," he reiterated once again, purposefully tensing around Dallon's cock as the other man groaned loudly in return. 

Fortunately, he wasn't too dumb and could follow directions the second time around. Brendon's voice caught in his throat as soon as Dallon began to fuck back up into him, the feeling of someone properly shoving into him something he couldn't quite get enough of. And just like that Brendon let his voice out, not bothering to hold back the moans and the cries of 'yes' and 'more' and 'faster' and 'don't stop', as if Dallon really would. He was sure that if he stopped his hips and kept edging Dallon for the rest of the night, he would have stayed and let Brendon torment him. 

He groaned in frustration at just how hot everything felt, Brendon preferring to fuck in the nude but the atmosphere and setting calling for them both to remain as clothed as possible. He could already tell he was sweating through his shirt, the heavy atmosphere of sex in the air making him dizzy. But in some weird way, he enjoyed it, more so enjoyed Dallon's moans in his ear and the desperate way he kept grabbing on to him as if Brendon were going to disappear. 

Shifting his hips, Brendon yelped in surprised relief as he got Dallon's cock to hit his prostate dead on. The painful stretch accompanied with the almost too good sensation of having that spot stimulated had his head swimming. There was no irritation or disgust or sheer desire to destroy Dallon in that moment. No, there was just that desperate need to get off. Release, release, release, as Brendon shoved his hips down and Dallon's moved up in a kind of violence that he was sure would leave bruises on both of their skin.

Brendon came untouched, his fingers twitching and digging against Dallon as he gasped and swallowed for air as if he'd been underwater. His brain wanted to stop thinking, black out for a moment to process the orgasm but the petty side of his personality didn't allow for rest. Because what if this idiot came inside of him?

Instead he pushed up off of Dallon with wobbly legs, smiling to himself at the desperate sound that came from the other man as Dallon grabbed at him and tried to pull him back down. 

"No, no, no, hey, h-hey now, almost there, Bren, c'mon," Dallon gasped out, the feeling of him rubbing his leaking cock against the cleft of his ass drawing a wider smirk across Brendon's lips. 

"Oh, baby, you didn't cum, yet?" Brendon cooed, fingers stroking at his cheek as Dallon shook his head and bumped his hips forward again, his breathing heavy and desperate from just how close he was to peaking. 

"Jerk off, then. I don't want your cum ruining my outfit," he continued with a disinterested shrug, pulling himself off of Dallon to straighten himself up. Of course, he'd need a change of clothes, himself, given the fact that his own orgasm had sullied his look. But Dallon could take care of himself. 

The taller man stared at him in disbelief, unable to form a coherent sentence as Brendon turned to smile at him as soon as he looked somewhat put together. Seeing him there, eyes wide in disbelief and cock straining. It was enough to make him lean in to catch Dallon's lips in another messy kiss as his hand returned between Dallon's legs. The sound of desperate relief that Dallon moaned into his mouth had Brendon sighing in approval, his fingers pawing at him in slow, firm strokes as he smeared his precum along his shaft and reached down with his opposite hand to roll his balls carefully between his fingers. That was it, that's all it took. He only needed to stroke him a few times before he was moaning desperately into his mouth and cumming all over Brendon's hand, painting the small digits with ribbons of his cum. 

"There, at least I'm nice," Brendon scoffed as he turned on the faucet to wash his hands off, checking his appearance in the mirror as he did so. Yep, he definitely looked like he'd just been railed in a bathroom. But at least he pulled the look off, hair sticking to his sweat slicked skin and face flushed and lips kissed swollen. 

"Wait, Bren," Dallon grunted as he made a go for the door. Brendon glanced over his shoulder, arching a brow as he waited for him to continue. "Can I like--Can I get your number?"

He couldn't help but laugh at that, his smile far too friendly and sweet for his response, "You can get it from my agent."

And like that he left him behind, purposefully leaving the door wide open so that anyone near or passing by could see exactly the state he had left Dallon in. All irritation he had felt earlier left him, Brendon instead back to wide smiles and far too loud laughs. In all honesty, he wasn't a people person. He didn't consider himself close to anyone, nor did he want to be in that sense. But he loved attention, the way people looked at him like they wanted to be him or like they wanted to have him. Even though he'd left Dallon in such a way, he knew for a fact that he'd be struggling to find a way to get a hold of Brendon again. They always did. It was like a drug, getting Brendon's attention. Something that he didn't supply people with for very long. 

But now? All he wanted to do was get downstairs and find a change of clothes. These were sweat and cum slicked, and the party was too hot for him to want to remain dressed like this. The trouble was getting to the elevator. He could only walk two feet without being stopped by someone. Someone he'd worked with, a stranger who wanted a picture, someone who wanted to talk about this or that. 

Despite his hate for people, he liked to be on good terms with everyone. Being hated and popular was far less rewarding than loved and popular. So he smiled and made chitchat, excusing himself after thirty seconds with each person that stopped him as he made his way further forward. 

He picked up an unaccompanied beer from one of the tables and downed it, only to hand the empty glass to someone standing in his line of vision. One week. An entire week of people. Really, he would have figured people would have grown bored by now, yet here they were. Drinking his liquor and listening to his music and using his home. As much as he hated everyone, the company was welcome. The noise helped keep the noise in his head down to a comfortable volume. 

Because being an antisocial pop star just didn't make sense. And he had no reason to not like people, right? Not when all they wanted was to get ahead with your image and your brand backing them. Not when they didn't share a single thing in common with you both intellectually and in terms of your personal system of beliefs. Brendon didn't get along with people, sure, but he had his reasons. 

When you were a commodity, when you existed as a brand, when people looked at you and only wanted to shout "Brendon, say this in to the camera!" or "Brendon, sign this on your album!" or "Brendon, do this for me!", what was there to level on? The dancing bear wasn't friends with the ring leader. The dancing bear danced, and he went back to his cage and thought about all the ways he could rip the ring leader's head off without simultaneously being taken out back and shot and labeled as a "dangerous animal" when all it wanted to do was survive. 

No, no, he wasn't the dancing bear. He was the lion. He wanted so desperately to be the lion.

Brendon all but dove into the elevator, quickly hitting the 'closed door' button as someone called out his name from inside of the party. He hit the floor below and sighed, smoothing his fingers again and again through his sweaty hair. He'd change clothes, and he'd return back to the party. Smile and drink and drink and drink and maybe if he were lucky he'd throw himself out the window. No, that was dramatic. Far too dramatic, even for him. Besides, if he were to go out it wouldn't be in a way that could potentially ruin his pretty face. He had too much pride for that. 

The elevator to the second floor slid open with a 'ding' and he stepped into the hall, looking up towards the ceiling as the sound from the party upstairs echoed in the quiet apartment. Like a thousand ghosts threatening to haunt him into the night.

How long could he keep this up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally the only Brallon in this story, so sorry to all you Brallon fans out there (myself included). Needed the man as a plot device. Whoops!


	5. SHTTPMBINHTT

When Ryan was growing up, his favorite thing to do was wander the many rooms of his childhood house. If they were staying at any of the hotels his family owned, then it was the different areas that people weren't allowed in that you were sure to catch him. It was like a game of hide and seek only without the seeker. Curious minds had adventurous hearts, and though Ryan had always been a soft spoken person both in his adolescence and as an adult, he was naturally curious. So naturally at the party of some pretentious pop star, he'd be the one exploring areas that were most certainly not for the guests.

That was made obvious by the fact that the bottom half of the apartment was completely silent except for the thrum of the party upstairs. The lights weren't even on, Ryan noting how his hand Dan's footsteps echoed on the floor. There was something eerie about an empty apartment floor, even more so when it was juxtaposed to the insufferable party just above them. 

In a way, he enjoyed this much more than he would have if he stayed and tried to find Z or Langley. He didn't do well in crowds. Listening to superficial people try to impress him with stories of careers that would fade out within the next few years. What was it with these people who earned their wealth through celebrity and their incessant need for validation? Like if they didn't gain his approval or somehow get some sort of awed look on his face, their careers were worthless. 

But wasn't that why they got into the business in the first place? Ryan was always of the belief that if you were in it for the art, the music, the scene itself, whatever you wanted to call it, the fame and the money didn't matter. What he thought didn't matter. As long as you were creating what you wanted to create, what did it matter what everyone else thought? It was why he had published his novel under a pseudonym so many years ago.

He was just lucky that it was an instant success.

How no one besides them had gotten to this floor was beyond him. All it took was one drunk idiot hitting the wrong button and heading inside, but the fact that the noise came from upstairs and the strange feeling anyone got when met with an empty apartment probably made for a significant detour. Really, the apartment downstairs was more charming than the one above. Though again, he probably attributed that to the company more than the actual interior decoration. 

"At least he has a bit of taste," Dan broke Ryan's thoughts with his voice, the older man motioning towards the modern design of the apartment. Sleek, silver appliances, a crisp theme of black and white in terms of furniture. For someone that threw such flashy parties, Ryan would have thought his taste in interior decorating would have been a bit more flamboyant. Not that he minded the more modern approach. But in a way, it all felt rather cold. Uninviting, almost. 

In a sense, there was no personality behind the decorating. In Ryan's apartment, you had a sense of who he was as a person with all the various knick knacks and focal points he put in each room. His place was an amalgamation of haunted boho chic and old western. Conflicting styles, yes, but they spoke to his personality rather than functioned as something that appeared stylish. 

There was absolutely no discernible personality traits based on what he could see. He had no idea about this kid. Not a damn thing accept that he clearly had made money in the time since he had made it as a musician.

"Who doesn't have clocks in their home?" Ryan asked, more to himself than to Dan as he moved to open one of the doors in the apartment, finding a guest room that looked like it had been designed straight out of a furniture catalog. "Even in the kitchen. None of the appliances had clocks on them, either."

"Only you would notice if someone has clocks in their place," Dan scoffed with a roll of his eyes as he opened the door across from the room Ryan had opened to reveal a bathroom, just as sleek and modern as the kitchen. 

"Honestly, the whole place is tacky. Where's the personality? There's not an ounce of charm here. I feel like I'm looking through a model home," Ryan shut the door behind him, his eyes still scanning, searching. "Who is this guy?"

"Apparently some kid from Utah. Mid-twenties, pretty face. Hear he's a complete terror to work with, though. Got ahead by using his looks to his advantage, sold former bandmates down the river for a solo deal or something like that. Least, that's what I heard. I have a friend that worked on the tour he just ended, said the guy is a bit of a spazz. Like, real big personality, doesn't shut up. People just naturally flock to him but don't really get to know him," Dan shrugged as he made his way down the hall to the double doors that remained shut just up ahead. 

Leave it to Dan to know a bit about their guest. As far as Ryan was concerned, he was just another pop star with mediocre music that catered to an audience of millenials that wouldn't know good music if it hit them in the face. 

"Must be some kind of party animal, we've been here for how long and we still haven't met hm, yet?" Ryan's voice dripped with false disappointment, the way he rolled his eyes an indication if that wasn't enough that he clearly wasn't missing much. His brain conjured up the image of some sort of dumb looking blond kid that exuded far too much confidence. 

"Are you dying to meet him, Ryro?" Dan asked with an arched brow, opening the double doors only to call out as he walked in to the room, "I hear that everyone whose ever met him wished they never did."

This room, this was better. The master bedroom was different in comparison to the rest of the apartment, both upstairs and down. His initial take in was the view, the left side of the room covered from ceiling to floor with glass windows and a sliding glass door that lead to a balcony. The view was breath taking, and had Ryan not been used to neon since he was born, he would have been stunned. The bedroom itself was decorated in hues of gold and black, pictures of various artists ranging from Queen to Sinatra framing the walls. The room was outlined in hanging circular lamps in alternating lengths, set to a dim that made the room glow rather than light up. 

It had him wondering, why was this room so much different than the rest of the two floor apartment? Walking through to get to the bedroom was so unwelcoming, whereas the bedroom itself had a sort of warm, inviting presence. He'd want to stay in the bedroom, but he would have never gotten there in the first place if he were with the owner. Because Ryan was observant, he read people through the way they chose to decorate or not. Just fifteen minutes in the front of the apartment would have sent him out the front door with no interest of ever making contact with the owner ever again.

But maybe that was the point? Why, then? What was the point of having such a cold, typical apartment and have the bedroom so inviting? To make people stay? To make people leave? To seem interesting, like you had depth?

Ryan made his way to the shelves near the large mattress with it's golden sheets and black pillows, his eyes immediately taking in the books and records lining each level. Young adult novels, Shakespeare, The Beatles, Britney Spears. Either this kid had eclectic taste or he just liked to have things to brag about when he brought people over to fuck. 

"You'd think this room belonged to someone who didn't actually live in this gaudy place," Dan mused with a raised brow, moving to perch himself neatly against the edge of the bed as he regarded Ryan with a small smirk. 

"Still no clock," Ryan countered, ignoring the laugh it earned him. 

"You know, for someone who has a reputation for being an insufferable asshole, he certainly has a lot of people at this party. "

"People love free booze and an excuse to do as many drugs as possible. Besides, I told you he was probably a pompous asshole," Ryan shrugged with that same air of indifference as he rounded back to the front of the mattress to take a seat besides Dan once again.

He could feel the steady thrum of liquor buzzing beneath his skin, a soft thrum that made the heat rush to his face and clouded his senses pleasantly. Perhaps not eating before he'd made his way over was a bad idea, even more so when Dan looked at him like that. Like he could feel his body humming just inches from his own. 

"Do you think he's christened his place, yet?" Dan asked with that same, cocky twitch of his lips that Ryan both hated and adored. 

"He's been in town for a week with a party that doesn't seem to have any end in sight. If he hasn't done it himself, by now, someone else certainly has," Ryan rolled his eyes once again. A common theme whenever Dan was around. He knew already what Dan was going to suggest. The same thing he liked to suggest whenever they were alone together. 

"Maybe we should christen it together, then, just to be safe. Would be a shame if we left it without a proper hello."

Fucking in that bed would have been a treat. But turning Dan down was something Ryan liked to do, especially when he got a little too adventurous. If there was one thing Dan was good at, it was getting Ryan to step outside his comfort zone. The man had a charm about him, a lazy sort of confidence that drew him in and held his interest where others had simply proven to be arrogant and dull. He could see it in the way Dan looked at him. Calm, but demanding. Expectant, but not pushy. It was the way Ryan looked at someone when he was trying to entice them and he hated it. Because it was like looking in a mirror and seeing all the terrible traits of himself thrown back at him and used against him. And he fell for it, each time. 

Hook, line, sinker.

"You think so?" Ryan returned, leaning in a little closer, the taller man ducking his head closer to Ryan's so he his breath tickled his lips as he spoke. 

"Yeah, I think we should fix this."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that this giant, empty ass apartment was an invitation for strangers to fuck their brains out."

Ryan and Dan both jerked their heads away, the irritation off them both rolling off in waves as they glared at the man in the door way. He looked furious, wide, brown eyes narrowed as he glared daggers at them both, arms folded over a slim frame as his hips cocked effeminately to one side. Had the guy not just yelled at them, Ryan would have found him immediately attractive. But instead he just wanted to slam the kid's face in for interrupting would could have potentially been a world class fuck. 

"I didn't know the daycare let out early for children to go on interrupting adults," Ryan countered with a scoff, only to smile as he saw the man in front of him gasp in what could only be described as horror. 

"Just who exactly are you two?" He asked, his voice going up an octave in a telltale sign of someone who got too flustered too quickly. Oh, cute. He was one of those expressive types. Even better. 

"I could ask you the same question," Ryan returned, the look of pure horror on the young man's face oddly satisfying. 

"Ryan, that's--" Dan couldn't even get a word in edge wise as the man in the doorway shouted at them.

"I'm Brendon fucking Urie and you're in my house! In my room! On my bed! With what looks to be my whiskey in your hand! Who the fuck are you!?"

That was it, that's all it took. Ryan burst out into a fit of laughter, the kind of laughter that shook his entire body. Of course this was their host. How could he have not guessed something so obvious? The way his hair was stylized to look lazily pushed back, the boyish features of his face that made him look younger than he probably was. And that air of arrogance. Yes, of course this was Brendon Urie. 

"We were just leaving," Dan grumbled, Ryan reaching out to grab hold of his wrist to still him as he glanced down at the watch he wore around his wrist. 12:15. That was an impressive enough time for someone to go without seeing the host of a party. 

"No, Dan, stay, it'd be nice to get to know Brandon," Ryan smiled, watching as the host looked ready to murder him with the purposeful butchering of his name. 

"Brendon. It's Brendon," he corrected, voice tense and sharp as his fingers clenched and unclenched themselves into little fists, the muscles in his forearms tensing visibly. He looked kind of like an irritated puppy when their owner pulled at their rope toy too long without releasing it. Cute, but not the least bit threatening. 

"Of course, Brendon," Ryan stood up as he released Dan's wrist, the taller man squinting his eyes at him as if he were waiting for someone to jump out and punch either of them in the faces. "I can't say I've heard much about you. I would have introduced myself earlier, but I didn't know what you looked like."

That expression of complete disbelief was far more satisfying than Ryan thought it would have been, the fact that he was being completely genuine in his ignorance as to who Brendon Urie was making it that much better. He loved telling someone who was so full of themselves and their status that he hadn't the faintest idea who they were, if only for that look. That look that screamed self-doubt and disbelief, with a hint of a desire to prove themselves.

Pretty boys and their desire for validation and attention. Brendon was probably the type who just needed to bat his lashes and he got what he wanted. 

"You can't be serious. You seriously don't know who I am?" Brendon scoffed, the way his brows furrowed and his eyes darted to Dan, instead, screaming that he was trying to appear like he didn't believe Ryan. But there was that doubt, held in his shoulders and the way they arched up towards his ears in tense irritation.

But of course he was more concerned with the fact that Ryan didn't know him rather than he didn't know Ryan. For all he knew, he was some nobody who wanted to get into a party and see a famous guy's house. Egos, Ryan thought, how fragile they were that someone stopped using logic if only to get a little bit of attention. 

"I'm sorry, I honestly have no idea who you are," Ryan reiterated, the smile on his lips not the least bit pleasant but patronizing in every sense of the word. 

"I had the best selling album this year," Brendon started, shaking his head in disbelief as Ryan shrugged in return. "Seriously, you can't go anywhere without hearing my music. Or my face. You haven't seen any of my ad campaigns? You literally have not heard a single song of mine?" He snapped, heading his way to one of the dressers to rip out a pair of black jeans and another t-shirt. 

For someone throwing such an elaborate party, Brendon certainly dressed like he didn't give a shit. Clearly fashion wasn't something he cared much for, but if he was stuck at a party for a week Ryan couldn't imagine being dressed to the nines at all times.

"Oh, wait, did you have that song that played for the Super Bowl this year?" Ryan mused, tapping at the side of his jaw thoughtfully. 

"Yes!" Brendon perked up as he turned around, his reaction reminding him of a child being praised on a shitty picture that would be hung on the refrigerator. Again, that validation.

"I hated that song," Ryan shrugged, holding back his laugh at the way Brendon's face fell. "Too predictable, sounded like every other song on the radio. Maybe that's why I don't recognize who you are, you're kind of just--Well, like everyone else."

"Ryan," Dan's voice cut through the tension, Ryan glancing back up at him with an air of 'What did I do?' "He is your host. We might want to take our leave and join Z upstairs."

"If you're not out of here by the time out again, I'm going to throw you out, myself," Brendon snapped, his irritation returning in full force as he stalked past the pair near his bed, only to purposefully jam his shoulder hard into Ryan's as he pushed past him. Ryan didn't even have time to be offended or angered, too shocked as he watched him exit to the adjacent bathroom and slam the door shut behind him. 

Really, he was like a child. He had to wonder how anyone put up with someone so arrogant. But Ryan enjoyed arrogant, if only because it made someone that much more entertaining to take apart. 

"Ry, c'mon," Dan sighed, able to tell almost immediately that Ryan wouldn't be joining him back upstairs. At least, not yet. 

"You go ahead and find the girls. I'll see you in a minute. I want to see how long it takes before the kid throws me out," Ryan smiled, the excitement in his voice palpable. 

"You're honestly going to spend the night trying to get under some kid's skin?"

"Are you surprised?" Ryan shot his glare at Dan, now, fingers smoothing through his hair as he set the empty glass of whiskey on to the sheets behind him. "It's why I came here in the first place. Z promised me a pretty boy meltdown, I can't be held responsible if all I'm trying to do is lead him a little."

Dan couldn't even argue. He should have known better than anyone about Ryan's love of games. It was, after all, how they met. A little piece in a game Z and Ryan played that somehow managed to entertain and work their way into their circle if only because Dan enjoyed games as much as Ryan and Z. With a sigh, he threw his hands up in defeat before he made his way over towards the double doors once again.

"When you get bored or you finally break him, come find me and the ladies. You're going to break my heart if you end up spending the entire night tormenting some self-obsessed pop star," Dan smirked, that twitch of his lips never fadng even as Ryan rolled his eyes in agitation.

"Break your heart? Me? Whatever will mommy and daddy say knowing I was the one responsible for their son's heartache?"

"You're such a bitch," Dan laughed, not waiting for Ryan to reply as he made his way out.

Ryan, however, remained. He perched himself neatly on the mattress, this time facing the closed bathroom door as he crossed his legs and let his weight rest on the palms of his hands. Fortunately for him, he didn't have to wait long as Brendon re-emerged in his change of clothes, the pure agitation returning to his eyes as he took a step back in obvious confusion to see Ryan still there and looking ever so comfortable. 

He gave a bit of a huff, arching his nose up in the air haughtily as he moved to grab the glass off of the bed beside Ryan only to shoot him that same glare over his shoulder. Cute, Ryan thought. 

"What are you still doing in here? I thought I made it clear that the party is upstairs."

"True, but I enjoy the quiet. Besides, this room isn't as tacky as the rest of your apartment."

"Is this what you do? You just go around to parties and insult the people throwing them? You know, I don't even know why I'm talking to a nobody. You can say you don't know me all you fucking want, but you know what, at least you have some inkling as to who I am," Brendon snapped, the cool, indifferent facade he tried to put on fading as quickly as he had donned it. 

Ryan patted the spot beside him on the mattress but Brendon didn't move. He clenched his jaw tightly, clearly furious that Ryan was inviting him to sit on his own damn bed like he owned the place. 

In a way, they were similar. Ryan was just better at protecting his ego whereas Brendon's clearly became threatened at the drop of a damn hat. 

"Not very friendly, are you, Brendon?" Ryan chuckled as he stood up and off the bed, instead leaning against one of the poles of the mattress frame as he kept his eyes locked on the smaller man in front of him.

"I wasn't aware that I was supposed to be civil to someone who has done nothing but disrespect me and my home since he's gotten here. Let me guess, you've already had my booze," he paused to dangle the empty glass in front of Ryan's nose, "and you're enjoying my amenities. But me being irritated that you're kind of an asshole is me not being friendly. Sure, uh huh. I like your logic."

"I was simply making conversation. You don't need to be so upset. Are you always this rude to people you just met?" Ryan chuckled, watching Brendon's body language. Tense. If he kept flexing like that he was going to get a knot in his neck and shoulders. Clearly he carried his irritation in those spots, how he rolled his right shoulder indication enough that maybe he was agitated by something earlier on in the night and Ryan was just exacerbating his mood. 

"I don't want to make conversation with you. I want you to get out. Go join the party upstairs, go home. I don't give a shit. Just don't bother me!" Brendon spoke in a low growl, pointing towards the doors with the snap of his fingers as if he expected Ryan to actually listen.

Of course, he didn't. "I'm sorry, I'm not a dog. I don't respond to snaps and points. Who raised you? Clearly not anyone with any manners." It was too easy to get this kid worked up, his wide eyes alive with rage that he couldn't hide even if he wanted to. Had he known Brendon would be this lively, he would have deliberately sought him out as opposed to just run into him like a happy accident.

"Fuck off. I don't need to take this from some nobody. What the fuck is your name, anyway? How'd you even get in here? Who the fuck buzzed you in?" Brendon hissed, the bridge of his nose wrinkling as he knitted his brows together. He dropped his arm, but the tension remained, Brendon wound tight like a rubber band on the brink of snapping. God, he wanted to see him snap.

"I'm George Ryan Ross the third. But you can call me Ryan," he smiled, only using his full name to judge if Brendon had done his homework and researched just who it was he shouldn't be fucking with in Manhattan.


	6. IDWFRN

Ryan Ross. For a name that sophisticated, you would have thought it rang a bell. But instead Brendon was left to stand there silently, taking in the smug man that had made himself comfortable in his bedroom. Ryan Ross. No, he wasn't someone in the industry. He had gone through great lengths to ensure that he knew anyone that was anyone in the music business. Musicians, producers, DJs, photographers. If they had even the slightest thing to do with music, Brendon knew about them, because it was better to realize when he needed to check his ego and when it was okay to take someone down like he wanted. Ryan Ross.

So, he was a nobody. That was the only explanation. He was some sort of bored man who lived in the area and wanted in on a party. Typically, Brendon wouldn't have cared about party crashers. He'd seen so many people come through his home in the past week that he couldn't have told anyone if he knew them or not. But at least everyone else had the common decency not to completely disrespect his home as well as him, personally. Ryan fucking Ross.

"You say your name like I'm supposed to give a shit who you are," Brendon snapped finally, turning to face the wall of windows as he readjusted his shirt in an effort to make sure each button had been snapped closed correctly. 

"And I'm supposed to give a shit about who you are?" Ryan countered easily as he made his way to the dresser on the opposite end of the room. He plucked the empty glass Brendon had taken from him earlier, only to fill it with the amber liquid in the glass container on the desk. The hair on the back of Brendon's neck stood up, much like a cat on the verge of clawing someone's eyes out. 

"I would hope so, considering you're at my party and are once again drinking my booze. You can't seriously tell me you don't know who the fuck I am!" He snapped, his fingers threading through his hair repeatedly in exasperation. It didn't make any sense. Even the people who didn't listen to his genre of music knew who he was. Did this man live in a god damn bunker underground with only music from the 60s and 70s to keep him company? He seemed pretentious enough.

Ryan simply shrugged as he turned to lean against the dresser so he could enjoy his drink and the view properly. "Why do you care so much that I admit I know who you are? I told you, I may have heard one of your songs. Couldn't tell you what the name was, and if I'm right in assuming then I definitely don't appreciate it, musically. I'm one person in a world of over seven billion, and even better you don't know who I am. My opinion shouldn't mean anything, to you."

"Because you're a fucking liar, that's why!" Brendon snapped only to find a seat at the edge of his bed. Clearly he had no intention of going and returning to the party, not when he had this asshole to deal with. "I don't understand why you'd lie about that! Do you really want to irritate me that much? I don't know you, sure. But why lie to get under my skin?"

"I'm not lying," Ryan chuckled softly around the rim of his glass, only to toss the whiskey back as he reached to top himself off once again. At least the home had no shortage of booze, be it at the actual party or down where Brendon didn't want anyone to linger. "I genuinely, sincerely, have no idea who you are."

Brendon's face fell for just a moment, only to once again turn into a scowl. Fine. So one idiot didn't know who he was, he could live with that. It wasn't like Ryan was someone who mattered.

But Ryan picked up on the frailness of his ego far too quickly. It was, after all, something he had grown good at over the years of toying with people to pass the time. And like hell he wasn't going to exploit that. 

"Tell me, Brendon. Are you really so insecure that you care this much about the opinion of one person? Someone you've just met?" Ryan asked as he tapped his index finger slowly against the glass. Like a timer, ticking away until Brendon finally answered.

"Are you kidding me? I don't give a shit what you think. I really don't. I just don't like liars," Brendon scoffed, once again turning his nose up haughtily as he brushed Ryan off. But he wasn't stupid, he could see the way Brendon's fingers clutched at the sheets, the tenseness of his body language, how his shoulders tightened and bunched higher against his neck. No, Brendon cared. 

"Be honest. You said yourself, you don't like liars. Why be something you don't like?"

Brendon's eyes snapped back to Ryan, fiery and angry and oh so alive. On some level, Ryan was jealous. He hadn't felt that much of a spark for anything in far too long. No, he was always bored and searching. And yet here Brendon was, like a firecracker. All spark and on the verge of a magnificent explosion. It made his blood rush and buzz beneath his skin, all the way to the tips of his fingers. 

"You're right. Why should I care about your opinion? You're a nobody, Ryan Ross. I'm somebody. People know my name, what the hell have you done to contribute to anything besides yourself? Nothing. So congratulations, you got a rise out of someone people give a shit about for around ten minutes. Feel better?"

Ryan smiled, small and genuine and complete out of place for someone who had just insulted him. Because Brendon was wrong. He had his contributions, and if he had just mentioned the book he wrote or his pseudonym, he was sure Brendon would recognize him. Would fall at his feet, feel special and unique that such a famously reclusive artist had shared themselves with him for even a brief moment. 

But Ryan wasn't like Brendon, nor was he like most celebrities that he knew. He hadn't gotten into writing for the fame or to make a name for himself. He was born with a name people already knew, even though it was clear Brendon hadn't the faintest idea who he was or how influential his family were on the east and west coast. Ryan wanted so desperately to create, to have people lose themselves in a world he created and come out of it a different person. And what did Brendon want? People to know his name. Validation. He didn't create, he wasn't sincere. He was selfish. Ryan never wanted his name to matter, he wanted his work to stand alone.

So God damn it, why had it been over a decade since he was able to create anything else?

"You're right," Ryan hummed, swirling his index finger along the rim of his glass as he stared at Brendon without a lapse in eye contact. "My name is unimportant. I am a nobody. And you shouldn't care what a nobody thinks about your formulaic, processed, mediocre pop music."

Had anyone been digging at Ryan this hard, he was sure he would have punched them in the face by now. But Brendon didn't appear to be a fighter, not in the violent sense of the word. Instead he bit down onto his lower lip, sucking it into his mouth as his eyes darted to the corner of the room, searching. Ryan was clearly doing a number on his ego, each word beating it that much more as the younger man let out a breath of air. Was he trying to calm himself? Cute.

"Why are you even here in this first place? It's a party. That I'm throwing. If you hated me that much there's no reason for you to come. There are a million other things to do in New York on a Wednesday night."

"It's Friday."

"Jesus," Brendon groaned, rolling his eyes as he fell back completely on the mattress to stare at the ceiling. "Wednesday, Friday. Who cares? They're just days, I never get them right. It doesn't excuse you for being a prick. Why are you here, Ryan Ross?"

The taller man pushed off of the dresser, instead moving to accompany Brendon on the bed. He sat beside him, crossing one leg over the other as he looked down at him. Gone was the lively fury, instead replaced by a burning agitation in the form of furrowed brows and a pouting lip. God, this kid was expressive. 

"Why are you here, Brendon Urie?" he countered, gently bumping the flat of his glass against Brendon's nose as he glared up at him in growing displeasure. 

"What kind of a question is that?" He snapped, pushing at Ryan's arm gently as he rolled over onto his side to get away from Ryan's prying eyes. There was something about the way he looked at him that set his brain into flight or fight mode. Like he was searching for something, studying too closely. No one looked at anyone like that unless they wanted something. "I'm here because I want to be--It's a celebration."

The word was enough to draw an actual laugh from Ryan, loud and unexpected as he shook his head in disbelief. A celebration? For what? Congratulations, my name is Brendon Urie and I am gracing you all with my presence. I've moved to your city, and will conquer all your social circles so long as you all give me the validation and praise that I so desperately want. Love me, love me and only me. Drink and be merry, but never forget that it was I who brought you this entertainment! A celebration? How arrogant. 

Or maybe he was simply celebrating the fact that he no longer had to work. Judging by the apartment and the sheer amount of expensive liquor everywhere, Brendon had no shortage of cash. He wasn't recording any music, nor was he on tour. Was it a celebration of no longer having to work? A celebration of the end of an era? That was more likely. While Brendon didn't seem like the type to enjoy working, he also seemed like someone who craved validation so much that they wouldn't quit performing. No, he needed his ego stroked and coddled. That's why he did it, Ryan could tell. Not because he loved the music, but because he loved the attention. And how could he get attention while not on tour or working? Parties.

"You know, I think in order to celebrate properly you'd at least have to know the people that attend your event."

"I know them," Brendon grumbled, his voice a garbled mess into the sheets on the mattress.

"Do you? Because I'm a guest, and you don't know me. And Dan is a guest, but you don't seem to know him."

"Who's Dan?"

"My point exactly," Ryan chuckled, finishing his umpteenth glass of whiskey as he rolled Brendon over onto his stomach so he could rest the glass against the curve of his lower back just above the swell of his ass. 

Was this asshole seriously using him as a coaster? Brendon turned his head from it's position in his arms so he could face Ryan once again, that stupidly smug yet sloppy smile on his face sign enough that the man was starting to feel a buzz. Amazing that one person could be so infuriatingly confident when they were goofily drunk. At least he wasn't sloppy. That was something Brendon was when he was drunk, after all. 

"How many people at this party do you know, Brendon?"

"All of them," he snapped. 

"Brendon. How many?"

"Most of them."

"We just had this talk about liars. How many do you truly know?"

"Get out."

Ryan laughed at that, watching as Brendon once again buried his face against his arms and the mattress, the glass still balancing neatly against his back. Great posture, he had to give him credit. But the fact that he had managed to put him in such a foul mood in such a short period of time was testament to how short a fuse this kid had. It would have been adorable, if it weren't for the fact that he was so insufferably into himself.

Typically when he was asked to leave, Ryan did. It was an excuse to leave a party and go home to try and work or sleep without pissing off Z or Dan and being labeled antisocial. Pissing off the party host was almost his sure bet to go home and enjoy his solitude, but he didn't budge. Not this time. No, instead he'd taken a strange liking to Brendon. In the sense that a cat would take a liking to a rather lively mouse that liked to bite at the cat's paws any time it got too close to scooping it up. Ryan liked to play with his dinner before he ate it, after all. 

Besides, it had been too long since he had been so thoroughly entertained by someone. Brendon was interesting, his cockiness and his regard for himself. In the way he pouted like he was now. How easy he was to work up. He definitely hadn't been in New York for long, proven by just how thin his skin was. If he wanted to make it alive in both this city and his chosen industry, he needed to stop wearing his heart on his sleeve. But in a way it was refreshing to Ryan, to see someone who was so unabashedly themselves. No shame, far too much confidence. 

After all, Brendon had gotten worked up over the tiniest things. His entire body radiated fire and passion over literally nothing, whereas Ryan hadn't felt that passionately about anything in years. In a strange way, he appreciated Brendon's misplaced egotism and passion, because at least he felt something. Everyone Ryan knew, be they his friends or people he simply knew in passing, were all so bored. Just waiting around for something interesting to happen, or trying to cause it, themselves but to no avail. They were all so calm and casual and blasé about literally everything.

But then there was Brendon. Feeling everything all at once. Too much of everything, one might argue. And yet experiencing nothing. He had all the emotion and excitement that Ryan lacked, but none of the experience. It was--interesting. To feel everything under a full dose of nothing. He envied that.

"Are you deaf? I said get out."

"You've told me to get out a dozen or so times by now. Don't you think the fact that I'm still here should tell you I'm not going to?"

"Jesus Christ, it's like I'm talking to a wall when I'm talking to you."

"Are you going to tear it down for me, then?" Ryan asked, the comment quick and sharp as he lifted the glass from Brendon's back and plopped it gently back down again.

Brendon lifted his head from his arms once again, only to stare at Ryan with those same, suspicious eyes. It only took a few seconds before he let out a little snort of a laugh, his eyes rolling at the his comment. "Clever, Ryan Ross."

He kept saying his name, that much Ryan knew. And he had to wonder, did he say it because he recognized his name? Or did he say it simply because he didn't want to forget it? Of course, Ryan had his suspicions. Brendon was new money, after all. He had no reason to know someone like Ryan, no matter how ridiculously rich he was. It wasn't like Ryan could help advance him any further in his career, so why would he have any reason to know his name? While everyone else at the party knew him and his reputation, Brendon was new meat. 

And it was always more fun when someone didn't know what they were getting themselves into.

"Are you going to sit there and pout for the remainder of your party? However long that lasts? It may not extend another week without you out there to charm your adoring public," Ryan scoffed, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

But as interested as Ryan was in Brendon, he didn't quite understand him as a person, either. Just as infuriatingly difficult as Ryan was to predict, Brendon had the reputation of being insufferable for a reason. And Ryan just made his list of 'people who need to be taken down a peg.' The younger man sat up, the glass rolling off his back and the bed only to shatter on the ground once it hit the wood floor. Both their eyes flickered to the shards of glass in silence, the glass split in a neat pile on the floor with shards reaching as far as the balcony and into the hall. 

Was he going to pick it up? Was he going to yell at him? Demand he pay for the glass? Ryan lifted his eyes from the glass on the floor towards Brendon, watching as the younger man kept his eyes on the glass, unwavering. For once the tension had completely melted from his body, like he wasn't wound so tightly moments ago that he had been mere seconds from snapping right at Ryan's neck. Instead there was a twitch of a smile on his full lips, Ryan focused on the way his tongue poked out to wet his lips. Brendon finally looked up, his voice cutting through the silence more sharply than the shattering glass had.

"Do you smoke?" Brendon asked, disregarding the glass as his attention drifted back towards Ryan. 

What?

"Smoke? Yeah, what cigarettes do you usually smoke? I've got Blacks--"

"No," Brendon laughed, a lazy smirk finding it's way across his lips as he reached over to brush the tips of his fingers against the back of Ryan's hand. "Do you smoke?"

The way he put emphasis on the word 'smoke' was indication enough as to what exactly Brendon had meant. He had to admit, though, he hadn't expected him to suddenly offer to smoke him out, not when he was so eager to throw him out only moments before. Ryan glanced at the way Brendon's thumb kept gently rubbing up and down his wrist, the contact making him arch a brow in suspicion. 

How long had it been since Brendon was seconds from tearing his throat out with his bare teeth? And now he seemed to be offering him weed? He hadn't expected that, not when he had only just moments ago broken a glass. Something felt heavy in the air, and he couldn't quite explain it. But it didn't slow Ryan down, nor did it dim his interest. If anything, Ryan found himself more drawn to the situation. 

"I smoke," Ryan answered finally, letting out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding. 

"Good. Smoke with me, I'm bored," Brendon smiled, throwing his legs over the side of the mattress to avoid the glass as he moved to grab his grinder, papers, and weed from the desk nearest the balcony. Ryan had to wonder if he bent over that far on purpose, his eyes fixed on the way Brendon arched his back as he dug around for his paraphernalia in a way that made his ass pop out far too much to be anything but on purpose. 

It was in that moment that Ryan started to fully process just how attractive Brendon was outside of his stubborn personality. Full, much to full lips. Round hips that didn't quite make sense on a man. Thick thighs and an ass that he would have called dibs on had he just seen him walk by and known nothing about his personality. Maybe it was the liquor that had clouded his thoughts and turned them into scandalous thoughts of Brendon Urie in various positions and states of undress. No, he had to admit, it was the way he kept deliberately pointing his ass in Ryan's direction.

Brendon slid open the glass door to the balcony, only to throw a look over his shoulder expectantly when he didn't hear the sound of Ryan's footsteps following behind him. "Well?" he asked, his tone impatient but nothing short of playful.

Ryan hopped to attention, clearing his throat to try and pull his head from the sudden fog that had covered it. For the first time that night he was confused, but the interest didn't fade as he slipped out onto the balcony in front of Brendon as he kept the door held open. There was a certain air of uncertainty that hung between them, Ryan half expecting Brendon to lock the door and leave him out there to suffer until he decided to return to his room. But to his relief, Brendon didn't lock him out and instead joined him out there on the balcony.

Brendon smiled, closing the door behind him as he moved to sit on one of the chairs beside Ryan outside. Any and all irritation was gone from his body, Brendon instead calm and collected as he fixed his eyes on Ryan expectantly. "I'm sure you've ground weed before. Here, help me out?" He asked, handing Ryan the grinder with the weed still in it as he pulled out his papers. "I like to smoke from joints better than a bong or a helix or a pipe. Hits harder for me, even though it burns the weed faster. Plus, the aesthetic is a lot nicer, don't you think? Like smoking a cigarette. Just holding it between your lips, letting it dangle between your fingers. It's a lot sexier," he chuckled softly, watching as Ryan kept crushing the weed in the grinder with the twisting of his fingers. 

"You can stop now. You've gone quiet, though. Something on your mind?" Brendon asked, holding his hand out for the grinder as Ryan gave it back to him without complaint. 

The older man shook his head, offering a bit of a laugh as he held his palm against his forehead. "No, I'm fine. Just think the whiskey is hitting me a little harder right now than I thought it was."

"Well, of course it is. You were drinking bottom shelf shit upstairs. The whiskey I keep in my room is for me. The proof is stronger," Brendon pointed out with a raised brow, watching as Ryan nodded his head in understanding. 

That was it, that's why he suddenly felt small and out of place. It was the alcohol, he was drunk. He wasn't suddenly intimidated or out of his element. Something in the atmosphere had changed, though. Maybe it was the fact that Brendon was no longer angry or irritated. That, that Ryan knew how to deal with. What he didn't know how to handle was someone who clearly had something up their sleeve but had a Poker face that no one could read. Or maybe he was just being paranoid. Was it really possible that Brendon had something in mind by inviting him out there to smoke? No--What kind of an ulterior motive could come from that? He was simply bored and wanted to smoke. It wouldn't be the first time someone had invited Ryan and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

Brendon didn't drop his smile as he turned his attention back to his papers, carefully placing the weed on the paper as he rolled it into a tight joint with careful fingers. He lifted the joint to his lips as he locked eyes with Ryan, his tongue poking out to wet the side of the rolling paper as he watched the way Ryan's eyes stayed focused on his tongue and the little flicks it gave to properly make the paper stick together.

He was going to destroy the son of a bitch.


	7. IMYCFMIS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for the few people that were kind enough to leave a comment. Comments make me write faster, even if they're as little as "please continue!" Also I may have screamed a bit seeing Ragno left a kudo because I'm in love with that author. Felt good!

New York City was one of the most stereotypical beautiful places at night. The tall buildings that lit up in neon that millenials were all so obsessed with. Time Square polluting the sky and making it impossible for anyone to see any stars in the sky. The light pollution was terrible in the city, but that was something he was used to especially coming from somewhere like Las Vegas. But God, on that balcony, with that view, so high up in the sky. It was views like this that made him appreciate New York and all of it's cliche and overplayed beauty. But wasn't that why it was a cliche? Because it worked. It was honestly that beautiful.

But so was the man seated next to him. Brendon, with his doe eyes and soft lips he kept drawing attention to as he licked the papers for the joint he was rolling. With his thick thighs that begged to be held and spread open and that ass Ryan had wanted to bend over since the little brat had turned around to walk outside. Good Christ, he was good looking. 

It was something he would have discovered on his own if it weren't for the fact that in the past ten minutes, Brendon was doing everything in his power to draw attention to his best features. How he licked the papers and his lips, the way he twisted his hips so his shirt rode up a little higher and showed the sinuous 'V' of his hip bones. The fuck me eyes he kept sending Ryan. 

Everything about it was stereotypical of someone that had to work to get fucked. But Brendon wasn't just anyone, he was _someone._ And it was what put Ryan on edge. If he was working to draw attention to himself, there had to be a reason behind it. Because Ryan would have noticed how damn easy on the eyes he was all on his own, but to have it suddenly thrown in his face without warning was not something he had anticipated or braced himself for. Or maybe he was drunk. Hell, maybe Brendon was drunk.

How drunk was Brendon? Was he even drunk? It wasn't like he had seen him touch any liquor. The possibility that he was on something was still there, but then again the fact that Ryan hadn't seen him ingest anything, himself, only lead him to believe that Brendon was very much sober. After all, Ryan knew hard drugs. He knew the little ticks of a man on coke or molly or K or Xanax and everything in between. There was no excess sniffling, darting eyes, dilated pupils. The only fidgeting Brendon did seemed natural, like the kind of bouncing and fiddling that someone with far too much energy did. Brendon had to be sober, then. An interesting fact, considering just how lively the man behaved. 

As for himself? His skin buzzed, the fuzzy numbness in his cheeks and lips hint enough that he had reached a comfortable buzz. His decision making skills were most likely significantly lowered, and the way he slouched in the seat as he let one foot rest against the rails of the balcony a sign that he didn't need to drink anymore unless he intended to blackout. No, Ryan had achieved a comfortable, warm state of intoxication thanks to the significantly stronger whiskey Brendon kept in his bedroom away from the rest of the party. 

Outside, though, they could hear the guests upstairs as clearly as if they were there. The thrumming music, the loud voices of the party goers. Ryan had to hold back a laugh at the absurdity of it all. His friends were upstairs, everyone else was upstairs. But here he was on the floor beneath about to smoke a joint with the host who seemed as sober as the day he had been born.

"Does smoking mellow you out? You seem high strung for a pop star. I'm actually interested to see how much this relaxes you," Ryan smirked, that lopsided, almost lazy smirk still on his lips as he stretched out further against the chair as the buzzing beneath his skin fueled his loose lips and overall relaxed state of mind.

"You seem pretty relaxed, yourself. Why should you care about how I feel?" Brendon asked as he pinched the end of the joint. The way he spent his time making sure the spliff was nothing short of perfect genuinely amused Ryan. He took his time, but the movements of his fingers and the intent in which he completed the task was so effortless that it seemed like he'd done it a million times before. And maybe he had.

"I just want to see you not be an uptight, angry bitch," Ryan answered with a wider smirk, watching as Brendon shot the tiniest of glares from the corner of his eyes. Even now he looked irritated with Ryan, though the silence between them and the tension in the air only fueled Ryan's suspicion that he was up to something.

Disinterested in Ryan's continuous jabs, Brendon brought the joint to his lips and lit the end only to puff a few times. The smoke wafted out past his lips in slow rivulets, the way they swirled and disappeared oddly matching in sync to the music upstairs. With the cherry properly lit, Brendon took a long hit and held the smoke in his lungs. After a few moments he exhaled, no coughing, no sputtering. Just a slow exhale past his lips as Ryan watched in a combination of awe and disbelief. So, the kid smoked. But not only did he smoke--he _smoked._ Funny, he would have assumed Brendon was an uppers kind of guy more than he was one for downers. 

"You like weed?" 

"Love it," Brendon smiled almost wistfully, threading his fingers through his hair to push his bangs out from his eyes only to have the strands fall back into his face a moment later. 

"What's so great about it, to you?" 

"The way it feels but I guess that sounds pretty basic," Brendon laughed, closing his eyes as he sunk further down into the patio chair. The chairs allowed for sun tanning, which made it easy for Brendon's tiny frame to curl up into the chair comfortably, his body turned so that he could face Ryan still. "It's like a blanket for your brain, you know? Warm. Kind of fuzzy. Makes everything slow down. I usually just smoke to just chill out or whatever. If I smoke too much I just kind of get trapped in my head. It's like I've got tunnel vision, or like I'm in this box inside my brain and I can see everything going on around me but I'm so far removed from it, it's like I'm watching television through like--I don't know, my own eyes. It's hard to explain."

"Then why smoke?" Ryan asked, the explanation only proving to further confuse him. If it was so terrible, there was no point behind it. 

But Brendon only laughed, lighting the joint again as he focused on making the cherry burn properly. "I told you, that's if I smoke too much. I don't smoke too much, I smoke enough. Enough to quiet everything down, slow my brain. To feel comfortable. Feels nice. Like when someone's stroking their fingers through your hair all the way down to the back of your neck. That slow, lazy scratching that gives you an endorphin push and makes you shiver? Yeah, that's why I smoke."

And it made sense. Everyone did something to make sense of the world and life around them. From what Ryan had seen so far, Brendon had enough energy where he probably needed something to mellow him out. The man was already so high strung and borderline obnoxious, albeit interesting.

"So," Brendon hummed as he passed the weed to Ryan, making himself comfortable in his own chair with those far too bright eyes fixed dead on the other man. "Why is it you didn't follow your boyfriend out when he left? Isn't he jealous you're down here with me?"

It took a moment for Ryan to process just who he was talking about. And since Dan was the only person he had seen him with, he had to laugh as he held the weed between his fingers. "What, Dan? He's not my boyfriend. Cute assumption, though."

"It's an easy mistake to make. I mean, you two were about to fuck on my bed."

Ryan chuckled at the bluntness of his comment before he finally brought the joint to his own lips. Now, Ryan wasn't someone who was new to marijuana but he wasn't someone who considered himself a seasoned veteran on cannabis, either. He preferred uppers if he were to do any sort of drug considering he didn't need much to mellow him out or make him sleepy. Ryan was exhausted enough by nature to not need anything to tire him out, and if he wanted to have fun while simultaneously dulling his senses or closing in on himself he stuck to booze. So when he took that first hit, it didn't come as easily as it did Brendon. He sputtered as he exhaled the smoke in an awkward puff, the smoke burning his lungs and his throat as he struggled to regain his composure. Brendon smirked.

"First time, handsome?" Brendon asked, taking the joint from Ryan before he dropped it in his coughing fit. "I'd offer you something to drink, but all I have is my whiskey in my room and I think you're pretty good on that."

"I'm fine," Ryan wheezed as his coughing subsided, face flushed from the lack of oxygen and the slight embarrassment from taking such a bad hit in front of such a cocky bastard. "Let's revisit this Dan subject, though. What's it to you?" He didn't want to dwell on his inability to smoke weed like a stoner unlike Brendon. He wanted to regain whatever upper hand he had previously had at the beginning of their conversation.

Brendon simply laughed as he took another hit, only to place the joint on the ashtray on the glass patio table beside him. He pinched the cherry to stop it from burning any further, making no sign of pain or discomfort as the burning paper touched his skin. "Why would I be jealous? I don't know you. Sure, you're pretty easy on the eyes, but so is everyone else upstairs. I'm not jealous."

"Envious," Ryan corrected, the marijuana only adding to that fuzzy feeling in his face and skin as his eyes drooped comfortably.

"Excuse me?" Brendon scoffed.

"You're not envious. Envy is when you want what someone else has, and jealous is when you're afraid someone will take what you already have."

"Are you seriously giving me a grammar lesson right now?" Brendon laughed, unsure if he was supposed to take Ryan seriously or not. "They're the same damn thing."

"They're not," Ryan argued a little more sternly, only to reach over and take Brendon's hand. He laced their fingers together, gently rubbing the pad of his thumb against the flat of Brendon's palm. "If we were together, and you were afraid that Dan and I were fucking, that'd be jealous. But we're not," he pulled his fingers from his hand, watching as Brendon kept his eyes narrowed in his direction, "so you want something that was never yours to begin with. That's envy."

"You're a bold person, Ryan Ross," Brendon laughed in a combination of disbelief and amusement, gently smacking his hand against his shoulder as Ryan's smug little smirk returned to his lips. "You're assuming I'm interested at all. Cute, but not the case. Why aren't you with your little friend?"

"Dan?"

"Dan."

Ryan simply shrugged in response, the millions of reasons why both Dan and Z made a terrible match for him running through his head all over again. Too similar, too different. Ryan didn't like relationships. He had no reason to, when he always found a way to fuck them up. It was scripted into his DNA at this point. And in all honesty, he couldn't realistically remember the last time he had a functional relationship.

Did Z and Dan count? What were they at this point, anyway? Ryan fucked Z, Dan fucked Ryan, sometimes they'd both fuck Z but Dan never fucked Z without Ryan. They all hung out together. The longest they'd been apart since they'd all been introduced was only a week when Dan went to home to Texas or if Z went back to Nashville. Because Ryan never visited Vegas. He had no home there.

"I run away when things get good," Ryan answered finally, the sincerity of his reply startling even himself before he began to retract his honesty. Honesty wasn't for pretty boys with bright eyes. "I'm not interested. We're friends. That's it. Really close friends, but we're not interested in one another like that." 

The way Brendon's face lit up had him uncomfortable. Because he couldn't read this kid. It was like he was showing everything he felt on his face and in his body language, but it was foreign. Like his body didn't speak English, it was some alien dialect that made Ryan read into him too much. And he hated it. "Why don't you have a partner?"

"Why would you assume I don't?" Brendon smiled, his right leg bouncing up and down repeatedly as he stretched it out against the concrete of the balcony.

"You're out here with a stranger instead of upstairs. If I didn't know any better I'd assume you're trying to get in my pants," Ryan chuckled softly as his eyes threatened to close from just how comfortable his body felt. But that would be too risky. His brain kept screaming at him not to keep his eyes off of Brendon if he wanted to make it out of the party alive. "You're obviously hitting on me. The way you rolled that joint? All that tongue? You invited a stranger to smoke. Smoking draws attention to your lips. They're nice, you know they're nice, you're trying to put ideas in my head. Now, what I need to know is if you're hitting on me because you genuinely find me attractive, or because your ego is bruised from me not caring who you are."

Brendon's tongue poked out between his lips as he grinned brightly, his fingers moving to drum themselves gently against his own cheek as he leaned forward towards Ryan. "You're a really observant kind of dude, you know that, Ross?" He laughed, voice barely above a whisper as Ryan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. But Brendon simply sat back in his chair again, his eyes going out towards the skyline. "I do find you attractive. But I don't believe in love."

"Excuse me?" Ryan laughed, the sound loud and sudden as he turned his body in the lounge chair to fully face Brendon. "You mean to tell me little pop star who probably sings about true love and love at first sight doesn't believe in it?"

"I don't sing about that stuff," Brendon corrected, lifting his hand to flip his middle finger in his direction without once turning to face Ryan again. "But yeah, I don't believe in it."

"Bull shit."

"I'm serious! I'm not trying to be edgy or anything. I just don't believe in it!" Brendon laughed as he moved so he could rest his weight on his hip to properly face Ryan. "Like, think about it. We're all just animals, right? And what do we wanna do? Reproduce. It's in our nature to want to put our dicks in someone and procreate. Do you think two lions are in love? Fuck no. And we're no different than them, you know? It's all just biology. Our brains are telling us to fuck, fuck, fuck so we can keep our dumb ass species alive. People confuse that instinct for love."

Ryan wasn't sure if he believed Brendon or not, but the calm way he spoke and the lack of humor in his eyes convinced him. "If that's the case, why does marriage exist? Or monogamy? Or homosexuality, for that matter? You can't reproduce that way."

Though it always made him laugh whenever he brought up monogamy, himself. It wasn't like Ryan really practiced it in the first place. If it wasn't for the women and men he cheated on, it was definitely because of the strange, almost polyamorous open relationship he had with Dan and Z. But then again, it came back to that idea of whether or not what they were in was a relationship. Ryan didn't seem to think so, and neither did Dan or Z. Z was always off chasing Langley and had made it clear that the only man she enjoyed sleeping with was Ryan, even if Dan was involved. And Dan was about as likely to come out to his parents as Ryan was as a best selling novel.

But there he was, arguing with Brendon. Because at the end of the day, he didn't agree with him. There was flaws in his argument that Brendon refused to acknowledge. 

Brendon simply shrugged his shoulders. "Natural selection at work? Or we're pack animals by nature. We don't want to be alone. And I get that. Who wants to be alone? We're social animals, we need that interaction to be sane. But love? This--I don't know, this like, idea that there's one person out there just for you. That you can feel for someone more than just this attraction that's purely carnal. I don't know, I can't get behind it."

"I can," Ryan frowned, unable to wrap his head around Brendon's logic. "I get what you're trying to say, but monogamy exists. People that want to just be with the one person they found. And there's research that shows that people receive this rush of endorphins when they're around the people they love. It's not just chemical. If it was, we coul feel that at just about anything. You're thinking about humans like they're animals, you're not thinking about social constructs and how they shape us. We're not animals, Brendon."

"If love is real and fate is real, why do people die alone?" Brendon shot back quickly, the sharpness of his voice causing Ryan to arch a brow in interest. "Why does unrequited 'love' exist? It is chemicals, it is attraction, and it's just instinct. I've never believed in love. I believe it's just fucking. We wanna fuck and we want to feel like we're not alone in the universe when at the end of the day, we're blips on a radar and none of this matters."

Ryan shook his head, only to lift himself up so he could lean his weight against the railing of the balcony. His body felt heavy from everything rushing in his system, but there was no denying just how relaxed he was. And yet there was Brendon, shooting off at the mouth about something that he clearly didn't understand. Love.

Of course, he believed in love. He wanted to believe in it. It was comforting, to know that there might be someone out there as fucked up as him and as bored as him. That shared his interested. Was perfectly made, just for him. How could there not be? Even though Ryan was the first to admit he was bad at love, it didn't mean he didn't want it. And God, he wanted it. But it was complicated, at least he had convinced himself that was the case. How could he reconcile who he was as a person for something so abstract. Ryan didn't think his values and what he put priority over fit into the conventional definition of love. 

Which made him wonder. Was Brendon truly that ignorant, that he thought there was one definition of love? That times weren't changing, and ideas weren't expanding? Love was even more complex than it had been fifty years ago, and yet he couldn't wrap his head around the idea that maybe there was more than one way to love a person. But that could have also been the author in Ryan speaking.

Fuck, he'd spent his entire novel praising the concept only to have his heart shattered by the girl that had inspired him in the first place. But that was puppy love. Teenage hearts weren't as mature as adult hearts. 

"Alright then," Ryan chuckled, as he moved to lean his back against the railing of the balcony, his arms dangling loosely against the top of the metal frame. "You don't believe in love. So blow me."

"You don't have to be a dick about it, it's just a difference in opinion," Brendon rolled his eyes.

"No. I mean it," Ryan's voice dropped, his eyes zeroing in on the smaller man stretched out on the patio chair. "Blow me."

Brendon couldn't help but laugh, his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek to make it bulge out in the universal sign for a blowjob. "Yeah, Ross? You want me to get on your knees for you?"

"You said it, yourself. You don't believe in love. You believe in fucking, so stand up for what you believe in. I'm attractive to you. That's what you said, right? So, blow me."

For a brief second Ryan saw something resembling shock flash in Brendon's eyes, his stomach flipping excitedly in the pit of his stomach from the bit of emotion he could actually read out of him. But it was gone as quickly as it came and that overly friendy and charming mask had taken it's place once again. Is that what he had to do to chip away at him? Goad him? Insult him a little more? Had he met Brendon under different circumstances, he would have assumed that he was a glutton for punishment. And maybe he was. Ryan had to stop himself before he started picturing Brendon in positions not fit for a stuck up pop star.

"I can find someone attractive and not want to suck their dick," Brendon answered calmly. The even tone in his voice and the way he kept looking at Ryan didn't scream uninterested. In fact, he seemed to be weighing his options in his head. This wasn't someone who was telling him no, this was someone who wanted to be convinced.

"When was the last time you had sex, Brendon?"

"Why do you think I came down here to change clothes, Ryan?" Brendon countered, his voice purposefully taking on the same tone as Ryan's to further antagonize the older man.

He simply chuckled, reaching down to grab himself through the fabric of his jeans as he arched a brow. "So you're telling me you wouldn't want to get on your knees for me? After all that preaching and boasting about fucking versus loving someone?"

Brendon simply smiled, his head cocked to the side as he stood up and made his way over to Ryan. He stood in front of him, close enough that their noses brushed together as he bore his eyes into Ryan's, unwavering. With how close they were, Ryan could spy the freckles that sprinkled across Brendon's skin, the little marks strangely cute for someone so infuriating. 

"Pull it out."

"What?" Ryan chuckled, his brain momentarily forgetting how to process information coupled with what he had demanded in the first place. 

Brendon's fingers moved to the hem of Ryan's slacks, his thumb pressing against the button of his pants as his eyes refused to leave Ryan's face. And as if to emphasize his point, Brendon ran his tongue slowly along his upper lip, his own hips pushing forward to bump against Ryan's. 

"You talk a lot of game. You overcompensating for something, handsome? I bet. So pull out your little prick, Ryan Ross, and let me suck it."


	8. BICACAOB

Happiness was a warm, wet mouth.

At least that was the philosophy that Ryan had always lived by. Sure, he couldn't name very many men or women who would have said that getting head wasn't up there in their lists of things that were nothing short of amazing, but for Ryan it was something he appreciated perhaps more than others. It was that combination of ego stroking and actual physical release that distracted his thoughts even when the act was casually brought up in conversation.

First it started with the reveal, one of his favorite parts when it came to people he'd never fooled around with before. Them on their knees and their fingers working deftly on the button of his pants to coerce him from the zipper. That wide eyed stare of disbelief the moment their fingers touched him and then that hitch in breath or tiny gasp that followed when they finally got him out. Because Ryan Ross wasn't small. In fact, his personality very well matched the size of his dick, something most people hated him for when all things were said and done with. And that wasn't saying that Ryan was a little above average, no, he was the type of guy most people couldn't take completely both in width and length. It wasn't like there were that many cocksluts in the Upper East Side.

Then came the unsure, almost shy foreplay. Those little brushes of lips, the curious flicks of a tongue, the way their eyes would flicker towards his face to gauge his reaction and hope to God that he wasn't bored. And he never was, it was hard with someone's mouth on your dick. A bad blowjob at the end of the day was still a pretty damn good.

And of course, next they started to get into it. They'd finally take them between their mouth and Ryan would get to smirk as they choked on him. He'd move his hips in short, little movements to get the to relax their throat. And they'd try, oh dear God, they'd try to deep throat him only to pull back mid-choke with that string of saliva and precum that adorably connected their bottom lip to the tip of his cock before he'd shush them quietly and ease them back down.

They'd work tirelessly to get him off, and when he did reach that precipice, he'd finish in their mouth and they'd swallow like it was the best damn thing they'd ever had in their mouth. Because it was certainly the most expensive with his net worth.

"You talk a lot of game. You overcompensating for something, handsome? I bet. So pull out your little prick, Ryan Ross, and let me suck it."

Those words rang in his ears a little longer than he would have liked. Maybe it was because of just how crossfaded he was that attributed to his slow response time. Or maybe it was the sheer shock that thrummed through him in small pulses. He'd had his fair share of forward men and women, but Brendon took the cake. It was enough to make him wary of his intentions all together, though the masculine party of his identity wasn't about to turn someone like Brendon down. Not when he had such a pretty little mouth.

That, and he had the audacity to assume that Ryan was anything short of well hung.

He gave a little hum as if he were still considering Brendon's offer, the younger man glaring up at him in impatience the longer Ryan waited. He had a sneaking suspicion that Brendon wasn't used to being kept waiting, and that fact only fueled Ryan's desire to drag things out. Anything to get under his skin.

"What happens when I drop trou', then? You gonna take off as soon as I do?" Ryan laughed, still incredibly wary of the offer though his cock was certainly starting to show interest. 

"You think I'm rude enough not to finish what I started?" Brendon gasped in mock offense, holding a hand to his chest in an effeminate matter that was all drama and not an ounce of sincerity. "Are you afraid of what I might think? I promise I won't make fun of you to your face, only to my friends."

"What friends? We've already established you're in home full of strangers," Ryan countered without missing a beat. And there it was again, that flash in Brendon's eyes that cut through the playful exterior he tried so desperately to put off into the world. That brief moment of pure hatred and agitation directed straight into Ryan like he wanted to throw him off the balcony right then and there before the nice little mask had taken over his face again. 

Instead Brendon's fingers moved to the hem of Ryan's pants, his eyes never once leaving the taller man's face as he began to undo them. Even with the party raging above them, Ryan's ears only caught the rustling of his pants as Brendon pushed them and his boxer briefs down until they caught on the tops of his thighs. Almost at the same time they looked down. And the silence.

Silence? That wasn't something he'd ever experienced before. Not when someone was looking at his dick for the first time, that was for sure. He didn't know whether he was angry or amused by the lack of reaction that Brendon gave him. It was like he was torn between slapping the little brat across the face for being so stubborn he couldn't even give him a reaction and simply shoving down his God damn throat to force a reaction out of him.

Luckily neither were necessary as Brendon's voice cut through the awkward silence, "Mr. Ross, you have the nicest dick I think I've ever seen."

And he laughed, if only because of the absurdity of it all. Moments earlier Brendon was insulting him, and now he just gave him the most straightforward compliment for such an intimate thing that Ryan didn't know whether or not he should take him seriously. Regardless, he was amused, the agitation from moments before melting off of him completely as he rested his weight against the railing of the balcony. 

"You've seen a lot of dicks in your time, then?" Ryan countered, watching as Brendon dropped to his knees without an ounce of hesitation.

"I appreciate both men and women, but I'll be honest and tell you I'm more partial to guys," Brendon answered as his fingers wrapped themselves around the base of Ryan's cock only to give him an experimental stroke from root to tip. He found himself groaning just barely, though Ryan considered himself a composed person when it came to sex. He preferred to listen rather than make much noise, himself. "Honestly, I just like dick in general. I couldn't care less the identity behind it. The way it feels, getting fucked. Feeling someone get off. It's weirdly empowering.'

"Empowering?" Ryan echoed with a soft chuckle, his own fingers reaching down to smooth one hand through his hair, only to rest a stern hold against the back of his neck. "What's so empowering about it?" As if to punctuate his point, Ryan arched his hips forward to bump the tip of his now very interested cock against Brendon's lower lip, watching as his tongue poked out to place a wet kiss just below the crown. 

Brendon rested his hand on the base, his eyes watching Ryan's face through long lashes as he wrapped his lips around just the head. His tongue flicked slow, lazy circles against the tip, fingers slowly stroking their way up and down the length. Just as Ryan squeezed at the back of his neck, Brendon slowly began to work his mouth down. He arched a brow down at the sight, only to hear his own startled and all too shaken gasp in his ears as Brendon took him easily down his throat so that the flat of his nose was pressed to Ryan's pelvis and his hands braced themselves on the tops of his thighs. 

"Jesus Christ, Brendon," Ryan hissed out, the hand on his neck instead clutching at the hair of his scalp. Brendon's throat tightened and squeezed around the entirety of his cock as he swallowed, his tongue still managing to stroke him like he meant it. The sight of him like that, lips red and slick with saliva and stretched out so damn lewdly. It shot a heat through him in places he didn't even know existed. "You can fucking--Seriously? How--" His disbelief only mounted as he felt Brendon's tongue push past his bottom lip and the underside of his cock, only to tongue at his sac as well and earn a low, hissing moan from Ryan that was well deserved.

Of course, he had to pull back, his lips making a loud 'popping' noise as he pulled back completely only to offer a wide, toothy grin as he sat neatly on his knees. "A parlor trick. Deep throating someone isn't as fun as actually giving head," Brendon spoke, his voice raw from the abuse on his throat as he wiped the saliva on the back of his hand. "What's not empowering about that? Your dick was throbbing so much I thought you were going to nut thirty seconds into damn blowie."

"You're a special breed of crazy," Ryan groaned in disbelief, only to shove back past those lips before Brendon had a chance to complain. This time there was no deep throating, Brendon instead lazily working his mouth up and down what he could comfortably fit in his mouth. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked, leaving a sheen of saliva on Ryan's cock as he paid special attention to the veins running up and down his cock. It was like his tongue was trying to trace every one, memorize where they were. 

Even better, was the fact that Brendon looked like he truly enjoyed giving head. Sure, there were the people who did it because they liked to make him feel good, but the look on Brendon's face made it seem like he actually got off to the feeling of Ryan's cock on his tongue and there was something madly intoxicating about that. 

Brendon pulled back, his mouth moving down further as he mouthed gently over Ryan's balls. He hissed in surprise, watching the laughter in Brendon's eyes as he moved his tongue and lips slowly against each one. "No one ever do that to you before? Just who has been sucking your dick?" He asked, his tongue working in slow, wet circles. He leaned in only to fit his balls into his mouth, sucking softly with wet little sucks. Every move was gentle, Ryan's fingers flexing against the railing of the balcony as he struggled to keep his composure. That? That felt nice. Too fucking nice. Jesus, when did he get so hard already?

"Not with their mouth. Jesus, you're giving me the messiest head right now," Ryan hissed out, in completely disbelief that someone was so good with their tongue. But maybe that was just a talent slutty pop stars had. 

Brendon pulled his mouth away so he could speak, much to the chagrin of the man above him,"They're missing out. Look at your face--Well, I guess you can't. But it's pretty nice right now," Brendon laughed as he sat back on his knees again the second time he pulled away from between Ryan's legs.

Initially Ryan had thought that maybe the little bastard was going to stop with Ryan fully erect and cock angrily flushed from just how turned on he was. But instead he watched as Brendon reached for the ashtray for the blunt and lit up right in front of Ryan as if he wasn't inches from touching him. He laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all, only to watch as Brendon exhaled the smoke right on his cock again without so much as clearing his throat. 

He paused and closed his eyes, as if he were simply savoring the high before he took another hit, the goofy smile on his face not at all appropriate for what they were doing. But somehow it made it better. Ryan liked the fact that Brendon seemed to be enjoying himself for someone who was getting no kind of payout from everything. Or maybe he was. The way he sucked dick certainly seemed like he was the type to get off on it. 

"I'm surprised you haven't just started fucking my face by now. Most guys generally do. You're getting lazy on me, Ross. I only have to wait a few minutes for my voice to not seem like I've been sucking a dick and for someone with your kind of blessings, that's pretty fucking disappointing."

The little insult managed to get under his skin. And here he thought they were having a lovely time but Brendon still couldn't keep his comments to himself. He reached down, fingers tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck as Brendon groaned, his eyes being forced to look back up at Ryan once again.

"You don't believe in love, but you believe in sucking off some guy you just met and smoking a joint in front of him? Uh huh," Ryan rolled his eyes, unable to keep his mouth shut even at the risk of Brendon stopping all together before he could even get off. But really, with the way Brendon kept looking him over it was hard to believe that he would stop. 

"Uh-huh. Do I need to know you to want to suck your dick?" Brendon asked as he passed the joint in Ryan's direction only for the older man to shake his head in decline of his offer. Shrugging, Brendon set it back down before he wrapped his fingers around Ryan's cock to slowly start stroking him again, eyes fixated on the bead of precum that had gathered at the tip. "You're attractive. I'm attractive. That's all there should be behind it. If we both want each other, why not act on it? Who cares about formalities. They're boring, anyway."

"But what if I turned out to be a serial killer? Or someone who was just terrible at sex? Or what if you fucking hated my personality? Would you still want to fuck, because you still find my physically attractive?" Ryan scoffed, still unable to get behind Brendon's flawed logic that he was so deadset on defending.

He shrugged and leaned forward, his tongue slowly swirling around the dripping tip as he gathered the precum up and swallowed much to Ryan's approval. "I would. Because look at this, Ryan," Brendon sighed, his fingers squeezing the cock between them in appreciation. "This? This is a blessing and like fuck I'm going to let your shitty personality get in the way between me and it."

Ryan couldn't help his laughter, even at the pornographic sight in front of him. "Oh, so you've already decided you don't like my personality?"

"I've already decided that I'm in love with your fat cock," Brendon corrected, giving a little peck to the blunt tip for emphasis.

"You talk this much with every blowjob you give?"

"Only to the guys that I think are annoyed by it. Not for women, though. They're usually too busy screaming and trying to ride my face to let me get a word in edge wise," Brendon smirked, wiggling his tongue suggestively against the slit of Ryan's dick as he earned another startled hiss in response.

Ryan didn't have much time to argue, however, as Brendon spit on his cock to rub more saliva into him and fit him back into his mouth. He tucked him neatly against his cheek, the skin bulging out lewdly as Brendon worked his mouth eagerly up and down. The quick, eager rhythm had Ryan's head in a mess, unable to think of anything snarky to say in response as he just focused on breathing. Curious, he reached down to hold onto the back of Brendon's neck again and thrust his hips forward, the sound of Brendon actually choking on him sending a jolt straight to his cock. So he could gag, if he was taken aback. Cute.

But instead of glare up at him and pull back all together like he thought Brendon would have, he instead relaxed his throat and looked up expectantly at Ryan. Did he seriously want him to fuck his throat? The 'fuck me' eyes he was sending him and the way he kept nursing his cock certainly suggested it. Not one to disappoint, Ryan started off slowly, working his hips in a lazy rhythm as Brendon's eyes fluttered every time he got him to hit the back of his throat. The sight shouldn't have been that nice to see, but there was no denying the way it turned him on.

He moved his hips faster so he could thoroughly fuck Brendon's throat, the little chokes and whimpers that bubbled past his lips encouragement for him to go harder more than anything. Ryan's own breathing quickened in pace, his brows knitted in concentration as he focused on drawing more noises from Brendon's mouth. 

"Were you always this good at swallowing or was this a trick you learned?" Ryan groaned out, voice low and raspy from impending orgasm though he fought it back. Why would he want to come so soon when Brendon looked far prettier on his knees with his mouth preoccupied?

Though Brendon clearly was interested in conversation again as he pulled away from Ryan again, even as his fingers continued to slowly stroke him to keep his cock interested. "Natural talent. Though for someone out in this heat getting the best blowjob they'll probably ever get in their life, you really don't sweat too much."

Ryan took a moment to look at Brendon, only to notice that he had worked up quite a sweat, himself. His skin was damp and slick from perspiration, hair hanging in his face from the sweat that soaked through it. His face was flushed a handsome red, lips swollen from working so hard and slick from the different fluids wetting them. And then there was Ryan, composed besides his labored breathing and a slight bead of sweat that had worked it's way over his right temple. 

"I prefer making people sweat," Ryan answered simply, Brendon offering a scoff in response as his mouth was on him once again. 

This time Ryan didn't intend on letting him up until he got off, not when he was so damn close already. The high he'd gotten from smoking was now gone and Ryan knew already he was going to need another drink by the time he finished to regain that comfortable buzz he had going on. Now the only thing dulling his senses was need. A need to get off, a need to finish, to see Brendon swallow his cum. 

Because God, he'd look beautiful. Ryan was torn between the desire to paint his pretty face in his seed and to just finish in his mouth and watch him swallow it like he had so nicely been doing to his cock this entire time. There was something entirely intoxicating about finishing in someone's mouth. He wanted it on Brendon's tongue, to have him show it off to him proudly like it was all he wanted in life before swallowing it gratefully. 

And Brendon was pliant, his mouth welcoming and encouraging as he stared up at Ryan with those doe eyes. Practically begging him to finish in his mouth. There was no fight in him like some people who didn't like for him to finish on their tongue, but the way Brendon kept pulling back towards the tip like he _wanted_ Ryan to finish in his mouth and not down his throat or on his face or anywhere else sent shivers down his spine. 

Each time Ryan hit the back of his throat, he groaned, his throat tightening around him with every swallow and his lips struggling to close around him. Brendon had lewd mouth, no man should have had a mouth that pretty and that made for having a dick shoved in it. And he was right, it probably was one of the better blowjobs Ryan had ever gotten, that punctuated by the way Brendon took him down to the hilt once again as his eyes fluttered in pleasure like having his throat so fucking full was as good as getting fucked. Ryan made a mental note to test that theory out before he decided he hated the kid sooner or later.

"You want it, baby?" Ryan asked, voice raspy and demanding as Brendon gave a happy 'mmhm!' in response as his lips smacked noisily on Ryan's dick. That confirmation was enough to push him completely over the edge. 

He came in ribbons on Brendon's tongue, the first rope of cum enough to make him grab hold of the railing with one hand as the other dug it's way in Brendon's hair. The man on his knees didn't move, instead he braced himself on Ryan's hips as he let him ride out his orgasm in breathless relief. 

For a moment there was nothing but white hot satisfaction behind his eyelids, Ryan focused on steadying his breathing to compose himself. Brendon's gentle tapping against his abdomen caught his attention, though, as he looked at the smiling musician. Without a word, Brendon neatly tucked Ryan back into his pants and boxers, zipping him up and buttoning him away as he patted his groin gently with the pads of his fingers. What was this? He had to say, this had to be the first time anyone had begun to voluntarily do his clothing for him. Typically people lingered around, naked or not, but there Brendon was dressing him without a word.

Something about the entire thing just seemed suspicious to him. The brat had been talkative the entire time, even in the midst of giving head, and yet now he was silent? Was something wrong? As Ryan opened his mouth to question him, he was immediately greeted with Brendon leaning over and spitting the load he had kept behind his lips directly onto the front of Ryan's black slacks, much to the older man's horror. The motion was angry and pointed, louder than it had to be simply because the other man was clearly trying to drive home a point. 

Ryan stared in horror, though the moment he caught glimpse of that smirk on Brendon's lips as he leaned in to rub any of the excess on his lips directly on Ryan's pants, that horror turned into pure anger. Oh, that little bitch. He wasn't going to swallow. He was going to make sure every bit Ryan had given him would end up in plain sight on the front of his fucking pants.

"What the fuck!?" He snapped, fury quickly taking over the pleasant rush of endorphins he'd received only moments before as Brendon got up to his feet. Had he not just gotten off and had his brain effectively turned into a pile of mush, he would have reached out, slapped the shit out of the smug looking bastard in front of him. Had he any idea how much those pants cost? And better yet, did he know how fucking impossible it was going to be to get a cum stain out of his pants in the middle of a god damn party?

But none of that seemed to matter to Brendon. Instead, he was smiling, all teeth and arrogance. It was the kind of self-satisfied smile that Ryan gave when he kicked someone out of his apartment. The irony, however, was lost on him.

"Maybe next time you hear my fucking name you'll remember who I am," Brendon shot back at him as he turned on his heel back into the apartment and out of sight as Ryan stared at his back in disbelief. 

The little bitch.


	9. BATDAICB

"Just exactly where the fuck do you think you're going?" Ryan shouted after Brendon as he slammed the sliding glass window shut behind himself. It was a miracle the glass didn't shatter from the force of his movement, the muscles in his forearm tense as he clenched and unclenched his fingers. 

"Back to the party, you should, too," Brendon's voice rang near the bedroom door as Ryan sprung into a near sprint so he could catch him.

Though he couldn't help the sudden rush of embarrassment that gripped his cheeks and chest as he nearly ran into the man he was so ready to kill, all teeth and arrogance as he stayed put in door jam like he had been waiting for Ryan all along. Of course he was, he wanted to see that look on Ryan's face that was the love child of fury and shock. 

"In a hurry?" Brendon all but cooed, his hands gently maneuvering Ryan so there was at least a little room between the both of them. 

"What the fuck is your problem? Do you know how expensive these pants are? How much of a pain in the ass it's going to be to get this shit out?" Ryan laughed at the audacity of it all, watching as he just shrugged it off as if he hadn't just spit a load of cum right in the front of hs slacks where everyone could see. 

"I think it's fitting. You could probably sell it online or something. 'Cum stained pants, jizz formerly in the mouth of Brendon Urie.' I'll even sign them for you for authenticity." Of course Brendon was joking, no self-respecting artist would want a scandal like that to get out but it didn't make Ryan find it any more funny. 

Clearly there was no point in continuing the conversation with Brendon if all he was going to do was stand there and mock him for being rightfully pissed off. And as much as he would have liked to punch Brendon in the face or strangle him where he stood, Ryan didn't consider himself a violent person. There was a difference between the things he enjoyed in the bedroom and seeing the pleasure and pain mingled together and genuinely hurting someone for your own satisfaction without the other party gaining anything from it. Instead he took a breath and just silenced himself from saying anything further, turning on his heel to head towards the bathroom he'd seen Brendon enter earlier in the evening.

But before he even had a chance to reach the doorknob, Brendon was in front of him, his hands an energetic blur as he locked the door from the inside and slammed it shut with that same shit-eating grin on is face. It was nice to see that a high-Brendon was not that much different from a Brendon who was sober. 

"Uh-uh, bathroom privileges revoked," Brendon teased, holding that same cadence in his voice that made Ryan's skin crawl with that same desire for violence against him. 

"You live in a two floor fucking mansion. Are you going to follow me around all fucking night and lock every God damn bathroom in this place?" Ryan hissed, finding the game he had suddenly gotten himself involved in exceedingly frustrating. 

Brendon merely shrugged, pushing off the door of the bathroom as he nudged his shoulder firmly to Ryan's. "No, you're not that interesting. You'll go upstairs and you'll find somewhere to go wash away your shame. Because if you stay here any longer, I'm just going to get security to escort you and your little problem out of the entire building." The smile on his face didn't match their topic of conversation which only proved to unsettle Ryan all the more. How could someone put on such a pleasant exterior when they were essentially threatening the person they were addressing?

Unfortunately, he couldn't exactly argue. He had a point. All it took was one little phone call to the front and Ryan would be out on his ass and with his luck some paparazzi would get it on camera. Despite his reputation in the inner circle of Manhattan, he had a rather positive reputation in the media and within the general public and he preferred to keep it that way. So instead he just glared, his lips pursed together in a thin line of frustration as he let out a slow breath through his nose in order to keep himself somewhat calm. 

"You're right. I'll be upstairs just--give me a minute or something," Ryan conceded, closing his eyes the moment he saw that triumphant smirk cross Brendon's lips. Cocky little thing.

"That's a good boy," Brendon dug the salt in deeper in his wounds, his hand giving his cheek a patronizing pat. "Enjoy the rest of the party." 

"Do you want to get your ass kicked? Is that what this is about? Are you trying to provoke me so that I sock you in your face so that you can't do any campaigns for a while until your fucking black eye heals?" Of course, Ryan's threats were empty, but he wasn't the type of person who could keep his comments to himself. Evidently, Brendon wasn't, either.

The scoff that followed was the first thing Ryan was greeted with, "'I'm sorry, I only fist fight in limousines. You're not worth my time, Ross." Of course Brendon felt the need to rub his celebrity in Ryan's face. If only he knew. But that was the difference between Old Money and New Money; New Money was cocky without the research. They didn't bother to consider just who they were talking to when they opened their big mouths.

He didn't need to open his eyes to see that Brendon had took his leave. All he had to do was listen to the sound of his footsteps against the floor, Ryan still focused on his breathing as the footsteps gradually faded so that he could no longer hear them. As soon as his body was aware that Brendon was no longer in his presence, his agitation hit him all over again. Who the fuck was he? Now it made sense why he'd been warned about Brendon's personality. A selfish little diva, that's all he was, nothing more. Someone who didn't care about the feelings of others and just used people for his own amusement. He wouldn't have believed it if someone told him that Brendon even had one friend he could call in this world.

It was the second time that night the irony of his situation was lost on Ryan.

There was very little he could do about the quickly drying mess on his pants. He finally willed himself to move through his blind anger, instead grabbing the expensive whiskey in the speckled glass bottle off the dresser once again as he made his way over to the mattress. Dabbing some of the alcohol on the stain, he grabbed the comforter to begin blotting his pants in an attempt to make it somewhat less noticeable. Served him right, if he could get even a little bit of cum on Brendon's sheets, he'd be pleased. Though from the way things were going, all he seemed to do was spread the cum around on himself and get a bit of it on the comforter. Progress, but still noticeable. Fuck.

Ryan looked around the room for anything to help his predicament before he registered the fact that he was in someone's bedroom. A bedroom meant clothing. He looked through the closet nearest to the door and held up a few of the pairs of jeans (did this kid even own nice pants?) to his frame before he cursed softly under his breath. Brendon was too short and Ryan's legs were too long for them to wear the same size pants and Brendon's waist size was wider than Ryan's. His mind immediately recalled back to the shapely form of his hips and the attractive swell of his ass before he pushed the thought stubbornly away. Fuck Brendon Urie--But not in that way, not anymore. 

So it looked like his only option was to head upstairs and return to the party so he could find a bathroom to make good of his situation. And once he got his pants situation settled, he was going to murder Brendon in front of all of his guests. Make the little bastard move to whatever bull shit city he came from. 

Instead he tried to adjust his pants as he made his way out of the bedroom and back down the all towards the elevator. If he was lucky he could just angle the stain to the inside of his thigh, but evidently Brendon had fantastic aim as no matter how much Ryan adjusted himself the stain found itself front and center much like where the issue had came from. Fitting. 

The moment the elevator doors opened, Ryan grimaced. Now he could hear the music louder than when he first arrived, most likely due to his heightened agitation and the small buzz he still had going on from the weed and liquor. As he made his way back into the overly heated room from the sheer mass of bodies inside, his first instinct was to grab a drink from the first table he saw. If it belonged to someone or if it had been spiked didn't seem to matter to Ryan as he shot the glass back down his throat, holding back a gag as his tongue registered the taste of vodka. He wasn't a thirteen year old at her first high school kegger nor was he a middle aged house wife trying to recreate Sex and the City, two of the only groups of people he allowed to drink vodka. God damn potato water.

"Ryro!" The soft voice washed over him in a rain of comfort, his head snapping towards the owner of the voice as he set the empty glass down and rubbed his nose from where the ice had hit him. "Where did you run off to? I thought you'd gone home already," Z scolded as she worked her way through the crowd and pulled Ryan to the far wall so she could hear him better over the music and crowd. "I spend five hours getting all ready and glammed up, get you dressed up to come with me, and you disappear? I'm not wearing heels for nothing, Ryan Ross! You're supposed to be my eye candy tonight!" She was obviously joking, but her pouting went unnoticed as Ryan's brain could only process his desire to murder.

"I'm going to kill him. Give me reasons why he doesn't deserve to die, " Ryan snapped, Z simply cocking her head to the side as she arched a finely plucked brow towards the ceiling.

"Dan? What did he do, now?" She scoffed, balancing her beer in one hand as the other held her hip. That was one thing Ryan enjoyed most about Z, her ability to throw back beers like she belonged to a frat house and with complete disregard to the disapproving stares from the socialites who found her unlady like despite just how much more attractive Z was than all of those Botox addicted fame seekers. 

"Who? What? No, fuck Dan, that's not--Brendon!" Ryan tried to form his thought coherently, his frustration hitting him all over again now that he had someone he could trust to vent to for once. Though the words were simply coming out a jumbled, flustered mess, Ryan offering another breath as he smoothed his fingers repeatedly through his hair to push the mop of curls out from his eyes. 

Z's eyes narrowed at Ryan suspiciously as she reached up to bump the bottom of her beer gently atop Ryan's head. "What's that, Spaceboy? Brendon? You mean Brendon Urie?"

"Who the fuck else would I mean that has such a stupid fucking name?!" Ryan snapped, immediately regretting his outburst the moment it left his lips. 

The smack that hit his cheek stung, his own hand raising to touch over the spot that he was sure at this point had formed a nasty red mark. Despite the stinging, Ryan found the smack strangely comforting if only from the person that it came from. And as annoying as it was to be smacked across the face, Z had served to jumble the mess out of his head where coherent thought finally took it's place in the forefront of his brain. 

"Don't raise your voice like that at me," Z scolded him, her voice stern and unwavering as Ryan clucked his tongue. God, he loved her. "Now use your words. What happened?" She extended her beer towards him which Ryan graciously accepted. From the way he was mixing all of his alochol, he could already anticipate the nasty hangover he would deal with in the morning. But there was no time like the present, future Hungover Self be damned. 

"Brendon--the kid who's throwing the party. So Dan and I went downstairs to just kind of look around. He's got a whole second floor, how fucking well did this kid hit on the charts? Whatever, so Dan and I are down there and the guy walks in on us and I thought it'd be fun to mess with him so I stuck around and Dan left. So I'm just making fun of him and watching him get more and more pissed off because I genuinely have no idea who he is--which you know is true. I don't listen to formulated pop garbage--"

"You're rambling, babe. For a writer you sure don't know how to tell a story," Z smiled, watching as Ryan shot her a warning glare. She simply smiled, the corners of her red lips twitching playfully. 

"Mhmm--Long story short, guy ends up blowing me--"

"There we go! That's what I was looking for! Ryan Ross, ladies and gentleman! The man, the myth, the legend!" Z cheered in triumph, her voice carrying over the scores of people and music as she clapped her hands in a circular motion. "A round of applause for New York's finest bachelor!" A few of the drunken people nearby looked over curiously, some even joining in with Z's sarcastic clapping. 

Ryan resisted the urge to smile at Z's antics, having to remind himself that he was angry and had a reason to be. But leave it to Z and the breath of fresh air that she always was to threaten the stormy cloud that hung over his head. "I'm not done."

"Oh?" Z hummed in interest as she tapped her chin thoughtfully. "What? Did you finish on his face and get some in his eye and now he's threatening to sue you?"

"He spit," Ryan answered dully. 

Z laughed once again, unable to wrap her head around what it was that Ryan was so upset about. "I'm sorry to break it to you, sweet heart, but even your cum doesn't taste like candy. Spitting isn't the end of the world--"

"On the front of my pants and basically told me to go fuck myself and head back upstairs with my fucking jizz all over my pants."

For a moment Z was uncharacteristically silent, her face a blank slate as she looked down at the crotch of Ryan's slacks. And just as he said there was the stain, significantly less noticeable thanks to his rage induced scrubbing with Brendon's comforter but still blindingly obvious under the neon lights of the party. Brendon knew exactly what he was doing when he had spit on Ryan. 

"Oh, baby, no," Z bit back her laughter, doing her best to show concern as she took him by the wrist gently so she could lead him further into the party. "God, I wish I was there for that. If only these walls could talk," she sighed in mock disappointment, Ryan nursing the beer she handed him as he glowered at the back of her blonde head. Sure, it was amusing for her, but it most certainly was not to him.

Z weaved her way in and out like she knew the layout of the apartment like the architect who had designed it. She plucked an unopened bottle of San Pellegrino from one of the staff serving wordlessly and produced a handkerchief seemingly out of midair (though Ryan knew Z and her slick fingers, she had probably swiped it from one of the party goers in the midst of leading him through the crowd). 

He watched her back and shoulders move as he followed, the skin exposed thanks to the deep cut of her dress that tied at the back of her neck and only bothered to begin covering the back of her once her ass started. Maybe Z was where his love of dancers stemmed from, the way she moved graceful and calculated in a dance with no music and no steps. He swallowed back the beer, his stomach turning in disagreement though his cheeks began to buzz back to life once again with the familiar numbness of intoxication. This was better. 

"In here," Z instructed, opening the door to one of the spacious full baths as she held it open. A pair of tall women were hunched over the bathroom counter, the way the redhead sniffled and blotted her nose hint enough as to what they were doing and it certainly wasn't pissing. "Get out," Z said flatly, the brunette that had been doing her line standing straight to obviously object before she caught sight of who it was at the door. Knowing better than to argue with Z Berg, both the women made a beeline for the door and disappeared in a click clacking of stilettos and a rustle of clothing.

Ryan chuckled as he followed Z inside, closing and locking the door behind him. "I always forget that no matter who they are, girls are likely to know you. What's that like, Miss Berg?"

"Oh, no, I just fucked the brunette before. She's some kind of closeted model. She's probably afraid I'd out her--Like I'd do something so classless," Z answered dully with a dainty wave of her wrist, motioning for Ryan to take a seat on the lid of the toilet.

Without complaint Ryan sat down, keeping his legs spread as Z began blotting his pants with the sparkling water and handkerchief, her movements almost clinical as she stared down at him with razor sharp focus. "It'd be better if we had soda water but I guess this will do. Guess our host couldn't do us the courtesy of splurging on some soda water. You'd think he's done this before," Z chuckled, the sound low and soothing.

"Trust me, I bet he has," Ryan groaned, watching as the stain gradually began to fade into an amorphous blob. Fortunately he stuck with black tonight, which made the wetness spreading into the fabric less noticeable although uncomfortable against the skin of his thighs. He could already feel it soaking through to his boxers beneath. "I'm going out there and I'm going to knock it out. I don't care what anyone says or if anyone finds out. That little bitch deserves to be knocked down about several hundred fucking pegs."

"Such an ego you have. I think you're less pissed off about your pants and more angry that he spit out none other than Ryan Ross's cum," Z smiled, her little snickering grating on Ryan's nerves though he did well to hide it. 

"He should consider himself lucky to get the opportunity to swallow me," he scoffed under his breath, watching as Z focused on getting him presentable. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Why, are you in a hurry to go somewhere? Stay a while, Ryro, have someone else ruin your shirt this time around."

Ryan rolled his eyes, instead digging into his pocket to pull out his phone. A little past twelve thirty. At this rate he was never going to go home at a reasonable time. "What happened to Langley? You were quick to abandon me for her," he frowned, his voice holding a slightly whiney tone to it that had Z laughing quietly to herself. 

"Photographer caught her attention. Apparently a big one in Milan, so she went to work her charm on him. Will probably end up fucking him for a campaign before the end of the night is over. Five hours, Ryro. Five hours I spent getting dolled up," she sighed with a shake of her head.

He had never truly understood Langley and Z's relationship. Langley was rarely in town with her modeling career, always jetsetting off to Paris or Tokyo or fucking Africa for a new shoot. And while Ryan liked the girl well enough, she had never fully integrated into their group. Or rather trio. It was always just Z, Ryan, and Dan, though Z was completely enamored with the model. But that was Z for you, she loved beautiful things and loved them more when they loved her back. 

"I'd rather fuck you than some asshole photographer," Ryan offered as consolation. 

Z simply nodded her head as she folded the handkerchief into quarters, trying her best to have it absorb any of the dampness while still keeping the integrity of the fabric. "You know, for someone who values their voice more than they value the people around him you think he wouldn't be the type to suck someone off. Especially when that someone is as blessed as you."

The comment had him laughing, his ego padded just barely thanks to Z's compliment. "I thought the same thing. Guy's kind of a size queen, actually. And you want to know the best, most fucked up part of it all?"

"What's that?"

"Mother fucker had no gag reflex," Ryan sighed wistfully, as if he had just had the winning lottery ticket in his hand only to have it scatter into a thousand pieces in the wind. 

The revelation had Z laughing all over again as she stood up to toss the handkerchief on the sink. "Leave it to you to find someone who can finally find someone who can swallow down your entire dick and he ends up pissing you off. What a fate you have, Ryro."

He simply smiled, his arms winding their way around Z's waist as he pulled the tiny socialite into his lap so he could nuzzle his nose to her throat fondly. He inhaled the scent of her perfume, eyes closed the moment her fingers began to scratch through his scalp. "But Z, you're the love of my life, didn't you know? Not even a pretty boy with no gag reflex and an ass that can't quit can take me away from you."

"As he shouldn't," Z taunted, her fingers tugging at the hair at the nape of Ryan's neck as he hummed loudly in approval. "Now let's go find your arch enemy before you pop another boner because I'm not cleaning you up twice in one night."

Ryan pulled his head out from her neck, giving her an amused sort of stare as he patted his hands fondly at the top of her thighs. "What, you're going to help me strangle him in front of everyone? Elizabeth Berg, I've always known you were a dirty girl."

She laughed as she leaned in to give his stubbled cheek a kiss, her red lipstick not leaving a mark after his kiss. "Oh no, darling. I just want to see how messy this gets. The guy is clearly on the verge of a mental break down and I'm confident you're the catalyst needed to push him over the edge. I told you I came here to see a mess."

Her words struck a chord in him that genuinely caught him off guard, Ryan's hands wandering up to squeeze Z's hips gently. How bored were they all, that they would openly want to see someone fall from a pedestal? Ryan of course had his reasons for wanting to ruin Brendon, but at the same time he had agreed to come because of the chance that he'd see him fall apart regardless, even before he had met him. Who were they to want to genuinely wish someone ill? 

But of course, he didn't let himself dwell on the topic too long. Because he wanted this, regardless of the timeline of everything. He needed to find Brendon.


	10. GABBHIM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made a tumblr, finally. Feel free to add me at vegasroller for updates, Ryden bull shit, and more sneak peeks into other stuff I'm working on!

Just how exactly had he gotten himself into this situation?

It wasn't necessarily a bad one. No, Brendon had always been more than friendly when it came to his mouth. This much he'd made abundantly clear throughout the course of the evening. In fact, his mouth seemed to be one of those things that was constantly getting him in trouble for one reason or another. It was his mouth that had also put him in such a good mood. Because while it had surely ruined someone else's night, it had done nothing but put a smile on his face. 

Somewhere between joining the party once again and chatting up a producer whose name he had already forgotten, Brendon had ended up with his tongue in a girl's mouth. A dark haired woman with wide eyes he had found rather endearing. Lively and animated as she talked to him about this or that. In all honesty her conversation was rather boring, but God, she was pretty. If she hadn't been so attractive, he liked to think he wouldn't have bothered giving her any of his attention at all. Nothing about her was particularly striking outside of her appearance, but then again that seemed to be the norm in this city. Everyone was the same, everyone knew the same people, everyone wore the same clothes. 

In a way it felt like he was reliving the same day over and over again, stuck in some sort of twisted reboot of the movie Groundhog Day only there wasn't some love interest he was trying to change his ways for. No charming and quaint town to contrast his far too busy life. No moral at the end of the story. Just monotony at it's finest, wrapped up in designer clothing and expensive alcohol. 

No one noticed when he disappeared, anyway. Between trying to sleep between parties (if you could even consider anything a 'between' when it never ended) and showers and changing clothes, Brendon hadn't had a single person come up to ask where he had been. And how long had it been? About eight outfits. That sounded about right.

He had to wonder if she tasted Ryan on his tongue as her mouth smacked messily against his own. The thought drew a little grin to his lips, Brendon's own tongue working against hers with more interest. She tasted sweeter than Ryan, like cranberry juice and Skyy with the stickiness of lip gloss. But despite that overly saccharine taste on his tongue, he found himself more drawn to what he had previously sampled. Because ultimately sweet was well and good, but he adored wrath. 

Brendon pulled her in closer, one hand at the nape of her neck and the other at the small of her back as he heard her whimper faintly in his ears. In one night alone (because it was still the night, wasn't it? That's what the windows were telling him), he'd managed to hop between three people. Since he'd gotten people to come over in the first place, he'd lost count of the number of people he'd bounced between. Kisses, heavy petting, actual fucking. Never the same person twice, but then again he'd always left such a bad impression after he left them that he didn't think anyone would have wanted a round two. He didn't need repeat visits when he was both handsome and famous enough to have whoever he wanted. 

Though it had amused him that people still bothered to come. Brendon wasn't an idiot, he knew the reputation he held, because he was the one that facilitated it. He made sure that people met him with the suspicion that he wasn't exactly the most welcoming of personalities. It made it more fun when he charmed them, made them feel like maybe they were special, only to bring reality back into perspective. Because he didn't need anyone. He didn't needy of them. 

So why were they here? He had wondered that for a while, now, and had come up with a few conclusions. 1. Curiosity. It was human nature, after all. Something fascinating and strange and borderline messy. Who wouldn't want to see that, regardless of whether or not they were involved? They'd make themselves involved. They'd try to, at least. 2. Necessity. Industry people and socialites alike couldn't stand not being invited to a party, or at the very least not making an appearance so that everyone could see that they had arrived at all. It could have all been a giant pissing contest that Brendon had voluntarily started. The 'oh, we've been here for X long' or 'we came here first' or 'we were the last to leave.' He was genuinely interested to see who would be the lat to leave when there didn't appear to be an end in sight. And finally 3. Boredom. This he was more inclined to believe. They were all just bored, and a party was a party, regardless of who threw it. Ryan had proven, after all, that you didn't need to know the host to attend. 

The thought of him not knowing who he was made his stomach twist and his shoulders tense up all over again.

And yet here they all were. Scores upon scores of people that didn't know him, but knew of him. Heard the stories, heard the rumors, seen him on TV and heard his songs on the radio. Sang the music he'd been given and made famous. Perceived him how he wanted them to see him. Brendon Urie the Celebrity. His teeth pulled slowly at the woman's bottom lip as her breath caught in her throat, the acrylic of her nails digging into his biceps. 

She loved him. They all loved him. Or what they liked to perceive as love. That chemical in their brains that drew their eyes toward him no matter where he was in the room or who else was there. He could feel the staring burning into his skin at all angles. Could practically feel the thrumming of her pulse from the sheer thrill of being near him with his hand holding the nape of her neck as he pulled her in closer with the intent of devouring her whole. He could never love them back. Oh, God, no. Not when jealousy always got the best of him. He was so, so bad at love. 

But maybe that was what made him so easy to spot. Because before he even had the opportunity to protest, a hand had grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him backwards, Brendon's laughter loud and full of joy as he turned his attention the the sneering man in front of him. Tall, lanky. Dark curls. Stubbled face. 

"Ryan Ross!" He smiled, his tone of voice far too cordial as the woman in front of them both glared daggers in Ryan's direction for interrupting their very public make-out session. "Have you met--I'm sorry, darlin', what was your name, again?" Brendon paused, waiting for the scoff that would inevitably follow.

"Zooey!" She snapped, the offense on her face as obvious as Ryan's agitation. 

"Right! Ryan, this is Chloe!" Brendon motioned to the girl, turning his eyes to her just to see the humiliation mixed with anger replace the lust in her eyes. That a girl.

Though Ryan was quick to demand the attention of the host, one of his large hands remaining at the back of Brendon's neck as he squeezed hard and kept the hold there. It was like when you had a puppy who had misbehaved and you held him by the scruff of his neck, causing him to go limp and docile. Clearly Ryan was no stranger to bossing people around. 

"I'm sorry, Chloe, but Brendon and I have some things we need to discuss," Ryan said as civilly as possible, the smile on his face far more fake than the one Brendon had put on. 

"I said it's Zooey! You should know that, too, Ross! No wonder you two are friends, you---You--Assholes!" The woman shouted, only to storm off in a flurry of heels and satin. Both men stared after her, though neither bothered to ask if they'd both managed to hook up with the same woman. Brendon didn't care about Ryan's sexual history and Ryan was more focused on trying not to murder the man he had his hands on.  
"You ran off in such a hurry I didn't get to properly thank you for your little gift," Ryan spoke lowly into Brendon's ear, the sound calm but oddly threatening. Brendon felt the hair at the back of his neck stand on end as a familiar shiver ran it's way down his spine.

Naturally his eyes wandered to the front of Ryan's pants, Brendon having to turn himself and pull away from that hand on his neck so he could take him in properly. Of course, the moment he noticed that there was no stain at the front of his pants anymore and instead a large damp spot, his lower lip jutted out in that exaggerated pout. 

"What's the matter, Ross? Did you piss yourself? Get a little too drunk and lose control of your bladder? Aw, it's okay, we can call your mommy and ask her to get you a change of clothes," Brendon mocked him as the way Ryan narrowed his eyes dangerously at him only proved to amuse him further. There was something oddly thrilling about the way Ryan could make himself appear so much taller than Brendon, the way he looked down at him making him shrink back instinctively though that air of self-righteous cockiness still remained. Brendon held the upper hand, he always did. 

"No, see, I didn't piss on myself. But you definitely managed to piss me off," Ryan snapped, his head turning to his side. "What do you say we carry this conversation on where there's not so many people, babe?"

It was at that moment that Brendon noticed the woman who had been watching them from behind Ryan. His head cocked to the side in interest as he took her in. She was small, though poised, an air of dignity about her that a lot of the women he had spoken to already didn't quite possess. Her eyes held that same predatory look in them that Ryan's had, though her smile was much more playful and almost whimsical. Like she knew a joke that no one else was in on. Though the term 'babe' put him off, Brendon looking between Ryan and the woman with a raised brow. 

"Babe? I'm sorry, might you be Mrs. Ross, then?" Brendon asked.

"Sweetheart, you're not subtle," she laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she wrapped her arms around Ryan's waist from behind, barely tall enough to peer over his shoulder. "Z Berg. I've heard a lot about you, both from Ryan and from, well, everywhere else."

Of course she knew him. Though having that validated in front of him didn't make his ego swell any less with pride. "Z? Nice name," he hummed in response, not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice. "Only good things, I hope."

"Oh, _wonderful_ things, mixed in with a few more disappointing facts," Z laughed, her smile widening as Ryan's body stiffened at the memory he was sure to relive until his dying breath. She held on to him a little more tightly, her hold both protective and possessive. "Your mouth is going to get you into trouble if you're not careful, Brendon."

Brendon could only laugh, waving his hand in dismissal as he shot her a suggestive look. "Do you want to see how much trouble my mouth can get me in for yourself, Miss Berg?"

The laugh that followed only made the youngest of the trio frown, though Z was quick to explain herself, "You have the prettiest face on a man I've seen next to Ryro, here, but you're lacking a few essential parts for me to be interested in taking your face for a ride. Though maybe if you're lucky I'll tell Ryan over here just exactly what to do with you--"

"Z, stop teasing him," Ryan rolled his eyes, interrupting the banter he knew would only get far more explicit and far more territorial if he let it continue any longer. 

"You spend all this time trying to find the guy and you won't let me have a little fun, too? This night is turning into a real 'No Fun For Z' night," she sighed, finally pulling herself away from Ryan to let him take the lead. Despite how livid Ryan seemed to be when he had initially grabbed on to Brendon, having Z around seemed to have a sort of calming effect on the man. That murderous look in his eyes had long since subsided, at least a noticeable amount, and instead he regarded Brendon with an expression reserved mostly for animals that weren't yet house broken. Honestly, Brendon preferred the rage than his contempt. 

Ryan broke away from the pair to leave the more crowded front of the apartment in favor of the back end, where the music wasn't so deafening and the lighting more dim and warm than flashing and neon. He didn't bother with words, his body language that of a person who was used to people following him without having to tell anyone to do so in the first place. Z trailed behind him, though Brendon stubbornly stayed put. 

Who were either of them to tell him what to do in the first place? He didn't need to humor Ryan and his ego. There were dozens upon dozens of people he still had yet to meet that he could entertain himself. 

"Brendon, come," Ryan's voice hit him right in the nerves, the younger man's jaw setting upon itself tightly. 

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that I suddenly have to do whatever it is you say," he laughed, brows furrowed together as he regarded the back of Ryan's head with a stare in disbelief. 

Ryan simply cast him a dull look from over his shoulder and rolled his eyes as he turned a corner, Z an excited blur behind him. And while Brendon stayed put, he looked from the corner to back to the livelier side of the party and back again. He didn't have to follow, he wasn't going to listen to Ryan and see what he had to say. All he was going to do was yell and then probably try to punch him. He was a walking cliche. 

But when did his feet start moving? Brendon damned his own curiosity as he trailed behind the pair, albeit the weight of his footsteps and slight slump of his shoulders was testament enough to the fact that he wasn't exactly pleased with taking directions. But he wasn't, he was doing this of his own volition. Because it took some gall for Ryan to approach him again, even more so with a guest in tow. 

When he rounded the corner and headed down the second hallway towards the quieter part of the party, he was greeted by a section that he hadn't bothered to attend for at least the better half of the length of the never ending party. People were still spread out between the furniture and the walls and the nooks and crannies, though the loudest part of this side of his home were the people. Music didn't dictate anything like the front half and instead conversation reigned supreme. Laughter, a few shouts here and there, but never with malice and always with delight. 

Brendon's eyes caught Ryan's again almost instantly. The taller man had made himself comfortable on one of Brendon's sofas, Z seated beside him with her phone in her hand and her nails clicked against the touchscreen from whatever text she was sending. She didn't see interested in seeing if Brendon had followed, but the way Ryan's eyes had locked with his almost instantly proved to him that not only was he waiting, but he expected him to follow.

It was that arrogance that had Brendon laughing all over again, wandering his way over to join the pair. For someone who didn't know him, Ryan certainly expected a lot from him. 

"So you can follow directions, look at that," Ryan spoke over the lip of his beer bottle, his expression as unimpressed as the tone of his voice. 

"I wasn't following directions. You seemed like you had something you were dying to tell me," Brendon countered, his own voice more biting than he would have liked it to be as he plopped himself down unceremoniously beside Ryan. Never one to not try and get under someone's skin, he made sure there wasn't a centimeter of room between them both, his thigh pressed snugly to Ryan's despite the amount of room on the couch.

Ryan simply offered a light hum in his throat in acknowledgment, studying Brendon more than he was glaring anymore. It made him slightly uncomfortable, the way he seemed so intent on trying to get a read on Brendon. He'd felt it earlier in the night and he'd felt it even when he had gone down on him. Ryan just couldn't take things at face value, but unfortunately for him that was all Brendon was willing to offer him. 

Depth wasn't reserved for people like him. For any of the people that bothered attending anything as absurd as this party he'd thrown. 

"Why did you run off?" Ryan asked finally, leaning over to set the empty bottle down on the glass table in front of them. 

Now it was Brendon's turn to stare in disbelief. Was that it? Was that the question he was dying to ask? "Because I wanted to."

"And do you always just do everything you want?"

"Yes."

"Do you always try and make sure you're the most annoying hook-up someone can have?"

"What's it matter to you? Did you want me to stay?"

"I think it's pretty standard to not want someone to simply spit like an asshole because they wanted to get a rise out of someone."

"Oh, I didn't need that to get a rise out of you, Ross. That was pretty obvious from how hard your dick was in my mouth."

"Is that why your mouth's that good? Because people would rather shove things in it than hear what comes out of it?"

"You wish you could hear the things that could come out of it."

There was no lull in the speed of their conversation, the tit-for-tat speed of both their words almost like they were anticipating what the other was going to say. At this point they were both glaring at each other now, Z having finally looked up from her phone to watch them both. She snapped her fingers between their faces, both men shooting their glares in her direction. 

She rolled her eyes. "The sexual tension is obnoxious. Do you two need to fuck it out again?"

"Z, baby, do me a favor," Ryan smiled down at her fondly, though the way he stared at her was anything but. He didn't need to continue on with anything else as she evidently had gotten the gist of what he had wanted, her hands going up in defeat as she chuckled softly beneath her breath. Baby. There it was, another pet name. Brendon had to wonder what their relationship actually was.

But before he had time to ask, Ryan's voice had captured his attention again, "I don't know why I feel like having a conversation with you, Brendon. But I do. I figure it's got to be better than going to jail for knocking your haughty ass unconscious."

There it was. He had known from the start that all Ryan had really wanted was some sort of revenge for Brendon getting under his skin. Though he was curious as to how that had somehow progressed into Ryan wanting to have a civilized conversation. Where he had came from, if someone had a problem with someone, talking it out wasn't exactly the best route. Brendon had been in his fair share of fist fights, despite how tiny he appeared to the average man. Because as tiny and somewhat adorable that he appeared, he prided himself in his physique and over all shape and health. Ryan was tall, sure, and he looked like he could throw a punch, but he also seemed like the type of a guy who would trip over his own two, long legs. 

Maybe that's why he had went the conversation route. Ryan was afraid he'd bruise his fragile ego even more by actually kicking his ass in a fight. At least, that's what Brendon told himself to rationalize everything in his mind.

Brendon laughed at the audacity of it all, his head practically snapping back towards Ryan as he stared at him in disbelief. "A conversation? Really? That's all you want?"

Ryan shrugged,the irritation rolling off of him in waves as his jaw clenched from the way he bit down on his own tongue to silence any snarky comment he wanted to throw back at him. "Yes. Honestly, I enjoyed our talk upstairs before you decided you wanted to end up on my long list of people that can fuck off. And honestly, I don't think you've had a proper conversation in a while. With anyone. I want to get to know you."

"Look, I don't mean to frustrate you or anything, but getting to know me isn't what you want. I'm calling bull shit on that one," Brendon scoffed, rolling his eyes. 

"Why is that so hard to believe? That someone might genuinely be interested to see if there is anything floating around in that seemingly head of yours?" Ryan was growing impatient, the sharp edge to his voice hinting toward it. 

"Play nice, boys," Z chimed in, her eyes not lifting from her phone again.

Hadn't this been the man who had approached him with the intent on essentially murdering him no less than ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago? There had to be some sort of angle. There was always an angle, he'd noticed. Especially when it came to people like this. His brain wanted to enter flight or fight mode, but instead Brendon kept his composure, his eyes still scanning Ryan up and down as if he expected him to land a fist to his jaw at any moment. When it didn't come, he continued.

"You don't know me," Brendon laughed, the words far more bitter than he had intended. "And I don't know you. Why can't we leave it at that?"

"Why can't you stand the idea that someone may want to _get_ to know you? Afraid that your personality is so genuinely shitty that someone might hate you because of who you genuinely are instead of this pompous little prick you pretend to be?" Ryan shot back, his express blank for such cold words. Brendon felt his breathing catch in his throat, but only for a moment. 

"So you want to get to know me?" He asked, taking a noticeable pause before he had even bothered to reiterate what Ryan had been getting at the entire time. 

"Isn't that what I've said?"

"Fine then," Brendon smiled, overly saccharine and not the least bit sincere. He rose up from the sofa, both Z and Ryan's eyes following him as he made his way over to grab a drink off one of the tables lined with booze and knocked it back as easily as if it were water. "Let's get to know one another." The words held somewhat of a threatening tone to them as he made his way back over to the pair, two more drinks in hand as he placed one in both Ryan's and Z's. It was the first drink Ryan had seen Brendon actually ingest that night.

Ryan's expression didn't leave any indication as to what he felt or what he was thinking. Though he was starting to see exactly what Dan had meant when he had described Brendon to him earlier.


	11. AOIST

Funny how plans changed. He had been so dead set on finding Brendon and knocking him out cold that he didn't think there'd be anyway he could ever change his mind. But when he had seen him across the room with his tongue down some girl's throat, all thoughts of murder had been thrown at the window and instead replaced with a low, burning need to stake his territory. Ryan didn't like to consider himself a jealous person, but the facts were stacked against him. Even with people he didn't think he cared about, he felt the need to assert himself over impeding competition. Not that he thought any one else could compete with him.

But to feel that way over Brendon? It had taken him by surprise. Though Ryan was interested in exploring this side of himself, if only because it had his mind racing a thousand miles a minute. That was new, exciting. He hadn't felt his mind this alive since he had written his first and only novel. Something about Brendon had triggered the creative side of his brain which happened to go hand in hand with the possessive part of his personality. And because of this he wanted to know more, antagonize him more, open him up a little more. But God damn it, Brendon wasn't the willing type. 

At this point they'd all been served another round of drinks, Ryan relieved by the choice of whiskey Brendon had handed to both him and Z because any silver liquor wouldn't have gone easy. His headache had dulled itself to a low thrum thanks to the change in atmosphere, Ryan nursing his drink rather than enjoying it as he blinked the intoxication out of his eyes that refused to leave Brendon's form perched on the arm of the sofa. 

"--so she went on and told me about one of her longest shoots. And I was like, five hours in make-up, and another five doing the damn shoot, and another five to take everything off and wash up and head back to the hotel? Fifteen damn hours! For a shot they'd gotten in like, the first one hundred takes! Langley's a workaholic, I don't understand how she does it," Z's voice had lured Ryan out from his staring as he finally caught up with the conversation. 

"She's doing what she loves. Fifteen hour days are nothing when it's something you like. I mean, you're getting paid a stupid amount of money to do something you genuinely look forward to getting up and doing. Who could really argue with that?" Brendon asked, knocking back what had to be his fourth whiskey in the span of thirty minutes. His words began to held that slurred pronunciation indicative to someone who was intoxicated, but not enough to be completely shit faced. The guy could hold his liquor. 

"You've met Langley, haven't you?" Ryan asked, Brendon's eyes wandering back over to him as he offered a cocky smile in response. 

"Tall, small tits, pretty face, striking eyes, legs fit nicely around your shoulders?" Brendon returned as his voice dropped a suggestive octave, both Z and Ryan staring at him in silent disapproval. Though he was quick to laugh, throwing his hands up in defeat as he gave a charming smile. "I'm kidding. I could literally be describing any model in the working world. You both just assumed I meant her. Fuck, lighten up, will you?"

Ryan had half the mind to slap him, if only because of the sudden irritation Z displayed from assuming her current fling was sleeping with Brendon, already. But of course she wasn't. The idea of anyone choosing someone else over Z was genuinely shocking.

"We only assumed because she'd mentioned meeting you. And since you don't seem to be one to wait very long before putting out--"

"I didn't fuck her," Brendon scoffed as he cut Ryan off, reaching over to try and balance his empty glass on the taller man's head only to pout as he snatched it off as quickly as Brendon tried to rest it. "I think I might know who you mean. We spoke a little, drank a bit. But I've met a lot of people since I moved here, and to be honest you all just kind of blend together."

He didn't know if he should have been offended or not, but Ryan chose the latter. Besides, it wasn't like Brendon was wrong. Ryan had the same issues when it came to the people he interacted with since he'd moved to New York so many years ago. In Las Vegas people were colorful, albeit for more nefarious reasons than most. But in Manhattan it seemed like everyone was disingenuous. People were social climbers and used everyone else to increase their social capitol. They wanted to date you because of the exposure, because you were rich and they thought that was all that mattered. They fucked you even when they knew you'd kick them out when it was over that way they'd have similar stories with the other bored socialites who had nothing better to do than bitch and moan about the equally bored men who wanted nothing but a quick and easy lay. They were your friend because they needed allies more than companionship. And they'd sell you down the river if it meant maintaining their reputation and their social status.

It truly was barbaric and he had to admire Brendon for showing no interest in working his way into anyone's inner circles. The majority of celebrities he had met were quick to latch themselves on to people with money and no discernible skills because it was a symbol of status. That they "made it" if someone so distinguished considered them their friend. But there was Brendon, working his way through the different social groups like a virus and knocking them all out without a second glance backward. Hell, did he even know who he was fucking with? He'd already proved himself not to know who Ryan was, and though he seemed to understand Z came from money, he didn't understand her influence on people, either. 

"There you two are," Dan's voice called out from the far side of the living room, both Z and Brendon turning their heads toward him though Ryan kept his gaze on Brendon as had been his habit since they'd sat down. "I thought for sure you had gotten thrown out. You make a new friend?"

"Dan! Take a seat, we're getting to know our new friend, Brendon," Z smiled as she patted the spot on the couch between herself and Ryan. Dan's attention perked at Brendon's name as he registered that the host of the party was suddenly in their midst a second time that evening. This time on more favorable terms.

"Brendon, right," Dan chuckled charmingly as he moved to sit in between both men, Brendon glaring down at him from the arm of the couch though the much taller man took no heed of his agitation. "I'm sorry we met on such awkward conditions. I promise I'm not that bad. Dan Keyes," he stuck his hand out for a shake, though Brendon ignored it with an amused smirk from Ryan. 

"Keys? Like a piano?" He questioned, picking at invisible lint on his jeans as if it were more interesting than whatever Dan had to day. 

"Close, spelled differently, pronunciation is still the same," Dan replied easily enough though even he was aware of the fact that Brendon didn't seem to be his biggest fan. "Are you still that mad about Ryan and I almost fucking in your bedroom?" Z's scandalized laughter echoed in Ryan's ears, but Dan was never the type to beat around the bush.

Of course Brendon glared, he was good at that, and Dan's bluntness didn't do anything to help his annoyance towards him. "I think I reserve the right not to like you for almost costing me a new mattress and bed set! You could have fucked in any room on this floor, but you two felt the need to go where no one else was stupid enough to and chose _my_ private bedroom!"

"So you wouldn't have minded if Dan and I fucked in, say, one of the bathrooms on this floor?" Ryan smirked, watching as Brendon narrowed his eyes further at him as if to ask what he was getting at.

"Boys, boys, let's not fight over me!" Dan called out, placing a hand on Ryan's chest and the opposite on top of Brendon's thigh only to have the youngest of the three jerk stubbornly away. "Here, how about an offer of goodwill and peace between men?"

Ryan didn't need to look or wait to know what Dan had meant. He'd seen this enough times to know exactly what he was trying to get at, had even experienced it himself when he was particularly fed up with his antics. Dan dipped his fingers into the pocket of his suit jacket, producing a small, clear baggy filled with white powder. Both Ryan and Z didn't flinch a bit at the appearance of cocaine, though Brendon's eyes widened visibly as he looked nervously around the room. What did he expect? For armed forces to suddenly burst into the room and arrest them all? There was no way that Brendon had been well off for long, he had to of just made it in the industry. If he'd been famous for longer than a year, he would have known by now. If you had enough money, the law didn't exactly apply to you like it did to common folk.

Take Dan, for example. The oil tycoon was no stranger to drugs. Whenever Z or Ryan felt the need to kill off a few brain cells, he was the first person they'd call because the bastard always seemed to have a hook up somewhere. He could remember seeing Dan's cocky ass doing lines in the middle of the VIP booth they'd gotten at a high volume night club, the security and bottle service girls not batting an eye at the behavior that would have gotten anyone else permanently banned from the club. But all Dan had to do was slip a couple big bills into the hands of people that worked there and their privacy was maintained. They could buy immunity if they wanted to, and often times people in their shoes did.

Ryan didn't need to, of course. He could have, but he wasn't an avid party goer. He liked to indulge in the privacy of his own home and around people he enjoyed. But at least seeing Brendon nervous was interesting. And it certainly proved his earlier suspicions that Brendon hadn't been on any drugs besides the weed they'd smoked. Hell, had he done anything besides weed, before? His nervous flinching and ever bouncing eyes seemed to suggest not.

"Want a bump?" Dan offered to Brendon first, fishing a key from his pocket to dip inside the baggy and gather the cocaine on the tip as he held it out for him. 

"Uhm, I--"

"He hasn't done coke before, Dan, be nice to the kid," Ryan smirked over the rim of his glass, Z's hand squeezing at his shoulder gently in a silent demand for him not to tease the musician over something so silly. 

"Really!" Dan was taken aback by the statement, the sudden flush of color on Brendon's face stirring something in Ryan that he was definitely interested in exploring. "A big star like you? I would have thought you'd be swimming in the stuff," he scoffed as he held one finger to his left nostril and took the bump, himself. 

"I mean, it's not like I haven't been offered it before. I have! I just, I've always been working. On tour or recording or video shoots or promotional shit--Like, it wouldn't be professional to walk onto a set blitzed out of your mind," Brendon explained hurriedly. The fact that he actually gave a shit about his career interested Ryan. He had gotten the impression Brendon was one of those pretty boys who expected a paycheck just for showing up, but knowing he genuinely cared about his craft (how shitty it may have been) genuinely impressed him. 

It was kind of funny, really. All of Brendon's confidence and cockiness had faded the moment the coke showed up. Instead he seemed nervous. Unsure. Ryan wanted to eat him up. 

"You've been throwing a week long party where everyone else has been doing all sorts of drugs, and all you've done is drink and smoke weed and fuck a little? You're the most straight edge pop star I've ever met," Ryan scoffed.

"Fuck off! Let me do it," Brendon snapped, sticking his hand out expectantly. 

"Uh-uh, you're going to spill it all. Let me help, Pretty Boy," Z cooed, leaning over both Ryan and Dan's laps so she could dip the key into the baggy. She held it up to Brendon's face, Ryan watching as he gave her an unsure look. Though as soon as Brendon noticed that Ryan had been staring, he glared, instead mimicking Dan's earlier movements as he inhaled the bump from the key point.

Ryan kept watching as Z did a bump herself, studying Brendon's face. He sniffled excessively, his nose twitching from the discomfort of having to inhale something. The moment that his brows knitted together and he reached for another drink to knock back, Ryan knew he'd tasted the chemical taste in the back of his throat from his nasal cavity. The drip wasn't pleasant for most people, Ryan never cared for the taste. From the looks of it Brendon wasn't too much of a fan, though not yet. The annoying side-effects before the burst of energy and that jittery invincibility were all he felt, now. 

As Z handed the baggy to himself, Ryan did a bump himself, racking his mind for the last time he'd done coke. It had to have been a month at the most, and if he'd remembered correctly it was at Dan's going away party. Of course it was. Dan was always present for all terrible decisions.

"Aren't you all afraid of like, someone noticing you doing this kind of shit?" Brendon asked finally as he sniffled again, rubbing at his nose with his index finger as the irritation still bothered him. "What if someone sees you? You're surrounded by people. Aren't you worried about--I don't know, ruining your careers?"

Cute, he was assuming they were in the public eye with careers that could actually be damaged. Ryan didn't even have a chance to answer first as Z made her thoughts known, "Careers? What careers? We're all set for life simply by existing, sweetie. Even if we did anything, just us being born was enough to set us up for life"

Brendon's brows furrowed a bit more as he tried to process the information given to him, only to look between the three guests sat on his couch. It took a moment, but that light bulb finally flashed over his head. "So what, you're some sort of trust fund baby?" Brendon asked without an ounce of shame, his question and his stare directed pointedly at Ryan.

Of course he had asked Ryan. It wasn't like he had given him any inclination as to what he did for a living in the first place. When he had introduced himself, it was just by his name, and the fact that Brendon hadn't batted an eyelash showed that he hadn't considered the fact that Ryan may have been an heir to a hefty fortune. Brendon was used to his celebrity "friends," of knowing people in his industry. The fact that people existed out there and were set for life just from birth hadn't dawned upon him. 

"Yes," Ryan answered finally, the pleasant thrumming in his face returning now thanks to the coke. Less numbing, more lively. Like it sobered him up from the booze but caused an excitable itching underneath his skin. "My family has stake in the casino business back in Vegas. But that's not to say I haven't made a significant amount of money with my own ventures outside of my family name."

"What's that? You have some sort of make-up or clothes line like every other asshole out there whose had the world handed to them since they took their first breath?" Brendon scoffed, his voice the furthest thing from impressed. Though he didn't offer Ryan any chance to divulge any more information on what he did (not that he would have given him a genuine answer in the first place), "How the fuck dare you call what I do processed trash and meaningless when you've done literally nothing but exist? Like, that's it? That's your claim to fame, what you've contributed to society? Fuck you, Ross!"

"I just don't agree with the music you make. Not everyone likes pop music. You're catering to an audience rather than trying to create something meaningful or artistic. What's so great about that?" Ryan asked, the corners of his mouth twitching fondly as he watched Brendon shoot up to his feet, his eyes wild and lively. His chest tightened, the buzzing in his skin tingling at the tips of his fingers as his heart beat sped up and thudded in his ears excitedly. 

"Least I'm getting paid to do something, the fuck are you doing!"

"Come on, Brendon, Ryan, don't fuck up my vibe," Dan's groaning broke through their little argument, though Brendon was having none of it. His attention was on Ryan and solely Ryan. And he loved that.

All he had to do was tell Brendon he was a novelist, that he understood exactly what he meant and had a leg to stand on in their conversation But he strayed away from it, instead interested in where exactly the younger man's little rant was going. "No, please, continue. What exactly do you think is so great about the garbage you put out into the world, Brendon? Justify yourself, please!" Ryan encouraged as he felt Z's fingers gripping his shoulder again. His words had came out too rushed, too excited. Was it from the coke or from Brendon? He didn't know. But fuck, Brendon was interesting. 

"It must be nice, not having to want anything your entire life. So you can sit there and judge someone else whose actually done something with their life," Brendon snapped as he began to pace up and down the length of the couch. Perhaps giving someone with so much natural energy a bump wasn't the best idea, but Ryan watched him with excited eyes. 

"How's it feel to be a part of that world, then? Because you know that's where you are. Look around you. Do you think normal people live lives like this? Do you think normal people throw parties that last a fucking week long? You might hate us for where we've come from, but look around, that's where you _are_ ," Ryan challenged him. Z and Dan exchanged knowing looks, only to cast their attention back to Brendon as he stopped in front of Ryan.

For a brief second he looked lost, all that confidence and arrogance Brendon seemed to naturally exude fading. He seemed smaller, unsure as he looked over at Ryan and processed the information given to him. But it was only a fleeting moment as he put on his facade once again, leering at Ryan as if he were a bug beneath his shoe. "What the hell gives you the right to define what 'good' art is? There's no such thing! You can't label art as something good or bad. Music, painting, photography, what the fuck ever. Good is entirely subjective! And art's not about being good or bad--It's--It's about what you take away from it, you know? How it makes you feel, how it impacts you." He laughed in disbelief, threading his fingers repeatedly through his dark hair as he continued to rant excitedly from the top of his head. "You think what I do is formulated garbage, yeah? Okay. Why do you feel that way? What about what I put out there makes you feel that? Huh? And what makes you feel that? Your life experience. How you grew up, what you value, what you think is important. You're projecting onto my music, Ross. What in your life makes you hate what I do? Huh?"

There was something about the passion in his voice, the way he defended something as trivial as pop music. But Ryan had to admire that. Brendon's definition of art was an interesting one, especially when it came to something Ryan could only describe as bubblegum wrapped in shiny wrapping paper. It looked nice, sure, but was overly saturated and insincere. Brendon didn't see to think so.

He had just sparked to life, though. Suddenly wild and passionate and full of genuine opinions that he seemed to believe in and not pretend and use as some sort of front for a personality that wasn't his. Ryan's heartbeat thudded in his chest as he refused to look anywhere else but the man still ranting in front of him. God, Brendon was beautiful. Did he not understand that he was art? Wild and dangerous and thought provoking and so God damn interesting. More interesting than anything he'd seen in Manhattan in years.

"You can sit there and judge me all you want. But I'm doing something. I'm creating, I'm putting pieces of myself out into the world. I'm contributing to society. All you've done is breathe. Congratulations! What a fucking accomplishment that must be! Let's all give you a round of applause, Ross, for being the world's greatest--Greatest--Nothing! Exactly! Nothing!"

Ryan wanted him. To hang him up on his wall and drink him in every day. To find something new in him every time he looked at him. To tear him apart and put him back together again and find out every little detail he hid beneath his insincere surface. Even as he yelled at him, his voice demanding attention from everyone in the room including those who weren't part of their conversation. The coke had obviously affected Brendon, his energy surging to a crescendo as he threatened to take the entire apartment down with him and his anger over the situation. But he was beautiful. So, so beautiful, in ways Ryan didn't understand. But he wanted to capture him and his fury and all of his passionate fury. He hadn't seen energy like that before. It moved him.

He didn't even notice Dan and Z, as Dan got up to round himself to the other side of the couch and whisper into the woman's ear. She gave another nod as she reached up to rest a hand on Dan's shoulder in silent affirmation. But Ryan was distracted. How could he look anywhere else? Wasn't this the kind of destruction and meltdown they'd come to see? Why was it more exciting than anything Ryan had ever witnessed but at the same time so much... less? He wanted more. Brendon had only just barely began to crack. There was so much more for Ryan to see, he knew it. And for once Brendon seemed to forget to put his mask back on as he glared wildly at Ryan, like there was no one else in the room.

What Brendon made he couldn't appreciate. But Jesus Christ, could he appreciate him. 

The hand on the back of his neck stirred Ryan back to life, coming down from the obsessive string of thoughts that bombarded him like a waterfall. He glanced over towards Z and her knowing smile, the acrylic of her nails gently scratching up and down his neck and into his scalp as he closed his eyes and let the fog around his brain settle. 

"New Money, huh?" She whispered softly into his ear.

Yeah. New Money.


	12. SDKMOTMA

Imagine you had a puppy. That puppy was the most energetic puppy of the litter, yipping and yapping and nipping at everyone's heels as they walked past to get their attention. He'd run in circles chasing his tail, falling over his too large for his body ears and paws, rolling on it's back with it's tongue dangling excitedly from it's mouth. Now imagine you gave that puppy about six espresso shots. Because that was Brendon Urie on cocaine.

Ryan wasn't sure if he was impressed or horrified by the abundance of energy that just poured out of him. His natural energy coupled with the obvious rage he had directed towards Ryan only threatened him with what could quite possibly be the beginnings of the greatest meltdown he'd ever been a part of, but that wasn't something he wanted to experience just yet. While he had gone into the party wanting nothing more than to see some overly pompous, self-righteous celebrity break into a million pieces, his conscious was doing a fair enough job of looking out for Brendon rather than encouraging him to finally explode.

"I remember the first time I did coke," Dan laughed as he watched Brendon fidget with the bottle of beer in his hand, his glare never once tearing itself from Ryan even when he was no longer the one speaking. "I tried to fight a bouncer at a bar in Dallas. Dude knocked me on my ass and gave me a black eye that popped a few blood vessels. I looked like a zombie for about two weeks. Was a great pick-up line, though. 'You think I look bad? Should see the other guy!'"

"For a giant you fight like a school boy," Z interjected as she stretched herself lazily out upon the couch, her eyes darting excitedly from Brendon and Ryan as if she knew something they didn't. Some sort of cosmic joke that only she knew the punchline to--but that was Z Berg for you.

"Is this seriously all you people do? Sit around doing stupid shit and acting like you're better than everyone? Why? Seriously, give me one thing that qualifies you to be in the category of Holier Than Thou. Just one! And don't give me any of that 'Oh, I've donated to charity' or 'I've gone to this or that gala to support this or that cause,' because that's a bunch of bull shit. I know it's bull shit, because I've _been_ to those bull shit events, and it's just an excuse for a bunch of assholes like you to stand around and circlejerk about how fucking great you are," Brendon all but hissed, is anger still directed at Ryan as the older man tightened the grip on his thighs he hadn't even realized he'd been anxiously clenching. 

Brendon needed to calm down. He was far too excitable, and the people not aware of what was transpiring between the four were starting to get suspicious. If Brendon was going to have a full on tantrum, he would much rather have it where Ryan wasn't in front of him. The last thing he needed was to be dragged into some sort of tabloid drama with Brendon Urie. Being the household asshole name in inner circles was one thing, being portrayed as an asshole in the media was an entirely different beast. He'd seen it happen to kinder people, because no matter what the story was, the person who was known just for their money was the one portrayed like the villain. It was a lot easier to sympathize with the person with talent than someone who never wanted anything a day in their life.

And unfortunately for him, a coked out Brendon was more inclined to start an outright fight with him than a sober Brendon. He much preferred the sneaky, manipulative way Brendon tried to get under his skin than the outlandish behavior he witnessed in front of him. It had to make him wonder if Dan had known Brendon didn't seem to indulge in anything besides weed and booze and had counted on him to react so dramatically. The way he smirked against his glass seemed to suggest that. 

"You sure like to talk, you got an off switch? Doesn't your tongue get tired of working too much?" Dan asked, the laughter in his voice obvious.

"From what I've heard his tongue seems to be in better shape than the rest of us combined," Z chimed in, her foot gently tapping against Ryan's calve for emphasis. 

"I'm taking him to get some water," Ryan spoke up finally, his voice, though quiet, firm as he stood up to round the couch and place a hand gently on Brendon's shoulder. 

"I'm not going fucking anywhere with you! I don't need any water! I'm fine!" Brendon's voice raised in volume, the laugh that followed clearly shocked that Ryan would have the audacity to assume he would do anything with him. It took all his self-control not to strangle the loud mouthed bastard right where he stood.

"Oh, come on now, Ryro, he's fine! It's not like he's on a bender. What, he'll probably start to do a few bumps for the next five hours, act like he's king of the world, piss off a few skirts. Oh, wait, that seems to be him sober, too," Dan chuckled as he pulled out the little baggy again to dangle it, only to dip the small key into the powder for another bump, himself. "The kid's had one bump. He's fine. He's not going to have a heart attack. I've seen worse, hell, I've _done_ worse."

Ryan shot him a disapproving look, the pulsing behind his eyes and temples only agitating him further as he tried to keep his composure. Maybe mixing coke and booze wasn't his finest decision, but it wasn't like he could enjoy both his high and his buzz when he had a near hysteric pop star threatening to strangle him or at the very least murder him with his eyes. This wasn't how the night was supposed to go. 

"Yeah, _Ryro,_ I'm fine. You need to chill out. I want to stay with my new friends and you're pissing me off," Brendon scoffed as he yanked himself a little too dramatically from the gentle hold he had on him. Instead he made his way back on to the couch, this time besides Z.

There was only one way this could go, especially with how loose lipped and already overly confident Brendon's personality was to begin with. And even though Ryan thought it was an established fact that there was no way in hell she'd ever go for Brendon, he couldn't help laughing at his efforts. Either Brendon had the memory and observation skills of a goldfish, or he clearly didn't give a shit about the fact that Z clearly had no interested in his Y chromosome. That, or he really was trying his damnedest to get under Ryan's skin.

Something told him it was a combination of the two.

"I think we'd have more fun just you and me. What do you think?" Brendon smiled, batting his lashes with that smile on his face Ryan was sure would have wooed anyone in that room that wasn't Elizabeth Berg. 

"Oh, baby boy, didn't I already tell you? You're pretty, but even your 'fuck me' lips aren't enough to make me want you," she cooed, the pout that followed Brendon almost comical in its childishness. 

"You really gonna be the only girl on this planet that'd turn me down?" He huffed, ego bruised but at least Z was distracting him from tearing Ryan to pieces. But of course he watched, interested to see how Z would approach this. She could either tear her teeth into his pride and rip it to shreds, or let him down easy. Ryan had been on the receiving end of both her sadistic cruelty and her bubblegum sweetness, had seen it just as well. 

"We've established this, handsome. I like women. I don't play for your team, as attractive as you all can be sometimes. Though I do think you'd look absolutely edible with a little rouge on your lips and some shadow on your eyes," she smiled, squeezing his jaw between her fingers to make his lips bulge out that much more. Ryan sighed in relief.

"But--You and Ross seem to dig each other," Brendon frowned in confusion, his whining somewhat adorable if it weren't for the fact it was egged on by him not getting his way. 

Z smiled as she let go of his jaw, instead giving his nose a little pat in acknowledgement as he wrinkled it as if on cue. "Well, because it takes a special kind of guy for me to take them to my bed. Ryro over there happens to be one of them. I fuck him not because of his gender, but because of who he is as a person. His personality, the way he makes me feel, makes me think. What he's packing has nothing to do with it. He's more to me than just a fuck."

He could feel the thrumming in his fingertips, the way he sniffled on reflex. Without so much as a word, Dan handed the baggy to Ryan as he made his way over to sit down on the arm of the sofa beside him. 

"So what, is he your boyfriend? What?" Brendon scoffed, casting a fleeting glance in Ryan's direction before the sudden scratching of the acrylic of Z's nails against his cheek brought his attention back to her. His girl would never settle for being second priority in a conversation. All eyes had to be on her.

"He wishes. No, we tried the exclusivity thing but it wasn't for us. He lacked things I needed and I lack things he wants. He's my best friend, has been for years. And you're sitting here insulting and threatening my best friend. How do you think that makes me feel?" She asked, Brendon sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as he shrugged his shoulders in response. Whether it was because he didn't know or he didn't care was not elaborated on. "Do you want to know something else?"

Ryan knew where this was going, he could hear it in the way Z's voice dropped an octave, in the way her eyes held that feline gaze. A cat toying with a fluffy little nervous mouse. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose as he let out a breath. Were his eyes too wide? He felt like they were too wide. He blinked.

"I let Dan over there in my bed, too. But that's because I like to watch him and Ryro together. See them fight for dominance or one another, how I can distract Ryan from him with just a word. They're handsome, don't you think? They're even more handsome trying to fuck each other's brains out," she smiled, watching as Brendon stared up at her in disbelief, hanging on her every word. 

But that was the thing about Z. She demanded attention, had that kind of calming energy that made even the most energetic of people relax if it meant she'd speak to them. At times he had to wonder if she was even real. Ryan could see it, the way Z just had to lower her voice and tell some sort of little anecdote that was right up the listener's alley to distract them from whatever was going on in their head. He worshiped the ground she walked on, his heart pounding excitedly in his chest. There were thousands of drafts of characters he'd tried basing around her since he'd met her, but there was no capturing Z. 

In front of him were two pieces of art in their own respect. And his fingers were burning to immortalize them both. 

"So are you guys like... Exclusive or something?" Brendon's voice lured Ryan from his head, capturing his attention as the younger man cast an almost shy glance over his shoulder in his direction.

Z laughed. "I just told you I prefer women, sweetie. No, we're not exclusive. We're all friends who like to enjoy each other's company. Sometimes that's sexual, sometimes it's not. It's not that hard of a concept."

The whole 'free love' idea had never been something Ryan had been adamant about. He knew that he wasn't the type to enjoy commitment, but he also was aware of his faults in the jealousy department. Z was the die hard hippy among them, though Ryan could recall that phase a few years back where he had gone with her to Los Angeles for a month and indulged in that lifestyle more than he had in recent years. But the premise was something he could respect. He loved Z, he loved Dan, though he wasn't in love with him. If he wasn't tying himself down with one person, why was it so wrong to enjoy the company of people he loved and trusted?

It was no wonder people referred to their friendship as incestuous. Not that Ryan cared about what jealous socialites had to say about him. If they trusted anyone as much as Ryan trusted Dan and Z, they'd do it, too.

But the explanation seemed to fall on deaf ears as Brendon looked around at the three in confusion. "I don't get it. So like, you all obviously have feelings for one another on some level but you're not like... A thing? Don't the people you try to hook up with or date or whatever have a problem with this? Like, what if you try to date someone, and they hear about what you guys are like. They'd get crazy jealous whenever you said you were going to hang out with someone else. Right? Doesn't that make things hard for you?"

Ryan couldn't help but quip back, "What's it matter to you? You don't believe in love, remember? What does it matter what our definition of it happens to be? This should be a simple concept for you to understand."

Brendon genuinely wavered in his disposition, his mouth closing and opening like a fish out of water as he tried to find a response. But he was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that the words failed to reach his lips. It was cute, actually. When he wasn't being an obnoxiously cocky asshole, Brendon was quite charming in that boyish, wide-eyed innocence kind of way. It had to make him wonder why he put on this act in the first place. By himself, Brendon was already quite endearing. He didn't need an act to get people to like him, but it seemed as if he was determined to make sure people _didn't_ like him.

Imagine that. A pop star who didn't believe in love or owning clocks and threw week long parties for people he didn't know or cared to introduce himself to. A pop star that hated people but believed in the dribble he created. Where did this guy even come from?

"I think I want that water," Brendon spoke up finally, his shoulders slumped as his brows furrowed together in a concentrated line. He lifted his gaze back to Ryan expectantly. 

Oh, so now he wanted him to take him somewhere. He had half the mind to tell him to get it himself, but the almost pleading look on his face made him reconsider anything other than indulging Brendon in his wants. He'd take him to Fiji for water from the damn ocean if that's what he wanted, so long as he kept looking at him like that.

"Alright, hold on," Ryan hummed as he hit Dan's chest gently, the taller man not even needing to move as he offered another bump for him. Brendon didn't move.

"Try not to be gone too long, Z looks like she'll leave me all alone if Langley so much as walks by," Dan chuckled only to earn himself a swift slap to the chest from her in retaliation.

"Uh huh, fuck off, taking my time. Come on, kid," Ryan stood up, ignoring the way his limbs felt heavy and his face began to go pleasantly numb yet tingled all at the same time. 

Brendon hopped up to his feet, attaching himself to Ryan's hip without so much as a second glance towards the pair they deserted on the couch. Ryan wasn't quite sure why Brendon had wanted him to come in the first place, but he wasn't going to complain. Not when he got to stand so closely beside him. He smelled like whiskey and weed, a slight scent of clove that Ryan could only assume was part of his cologne. And were that freckles on his face? Freckles suited him. In fact, his face and nose were littered with them. He wondered if they came out more if he stayed out in the sun for too long. Did he have freckles on his chest, too? What about his back? His hips and thighs and legs and--

"Get in," Brendon hummed as the door to the elevator opened with a 'ding.' Ryan blinked in slow confusion. When had they gotten this far away from the room they'd been in before? Why the hell did they need to go to the second floor for water? Didn't they have any where the scores of people were? Someone had to have died of dehydration by now if they didn't. 

"Where are we going?" Ryan chuckled softly as he ran his fingers through his hair to push the strands out from his eyes. He bumped his shoulder against the wall, watching the doors shut behind Brendon. 

"Downstairs. I wanna smoke."

"What, why didn't you just say that in the first place? It's weed. You were just doing coke. They aren't going to call the feds or something--"

"I don't wanna share," Brendon answered with a firm edge to his voice. Ryan had to wonder if he meant the weed. 

As soon as the doors opened, Brendon made a bee line for his bedroom. Ryan followed behind him lazily, again taking in the overly modern and personality-less decor that differed so drastically from Brendon's bedroom. And again no fucking clock. What time was it now? He felt like he was in one of the hotels his family owned. No clocks, no windows. No way of discerning how long you had been there or how much you lost. It genuinely disturbed him.

By the time Ryan met up with him once again in the bedroom, Brendon was already out on the balcony. He could see the top of his head as he laid stretched out on the lounging chair, the smoke from his joint wafting ever skyward. Brendon was a man on a mission when it came to his weed, apparently. But he had left the joint on the balcony when he had left in the fist place. He had to have been impatient to get a hit.

He pulled back the glass door to join him outside, Brendon not bothering to look back or greet him as Ryan took a seat wordlessly beside him in the opposite chair. He could see his bent leg bouncing excitedly, the fingers not holding the joint tapping a rhythmic beat onto the metal arm of the chair. His body language screamed tense, uncomfortable even, and Ryan couldn't help the sudden guilt churning in his gut from not trying to stop him from indulging in the first place. But how was he supposed to know that he would have reacted so poorly to a little coke? Ryan never had. But he'd never met a person quite like Brendon.

"I don't know how you can do that stuff. Maybe I'm not wired for it. Like--I don't like it. Feels weird. My brain is going at like, five hundred miles an hour. And I hate it because my brain already goes at one hundred miles an hour to begin with," Brendon spoke up, bringing the joint to his lips as he inhaled. He held the smoke in his lungs before he exhaled through his nose, Ryan laughing quietly to himself at the French Inhale. Of course he was the type to know tricks with smoke. 

"It's not for everyone. You didn't have to do it," Ryan answered as he stretched out with a soft groan. When the weed was passed over to him he lifted his hand up in rejection. Uppers were more his thing. He was finally having a good time, coked out of his mind out on the balcony away from the party with a man who had spit his cum out onto his pants in order to leave a lasting impression. Funny how things worked out.

He glanced back at Brendon, the lights of the skyline reflecting off his skin. How hadn't he noticed how much he'd been sweating upstairs? The neon didn't do his skin any justice, but the city lights in the distance certainly did. He positively glowed, his skin shimmering like glitter as his chest fell and rose softly with the way he breathed. Ryan felt like if he reached out and touched him his skin would be cold like snow, but the light flush on Brendon's cheeks hinted enough to how warm he probably was. 

"I still don't get your relationship with them. Like. It doesn't make sense. What's the point? Is it for sex or companionship? Why not just date?" Brendon laughed, draping an arm across his eyes as he seemed bothered by how much the concept of Ryan, Dan, and Z's relationship baffled him.

But it wasn't like most people understood. And it wasn't like Ryan really cared to explain it to people. He simply let the rumors speak for themselves and continued on his life, not bothered. 

At least they had found some sort of common ground, though. A mutual lack of understanding for the other's way of life and system of beliefs. It was a miracle they hadn't ripped one another's heads off with how opposite they were. 

"Well, what's so hard to get about it? The fact that it's not based around exclusivity or because Z is a lesbian most days or that Dan couldn't commit to a paper bag if he wanted to? It's the same thing as having a fuck buddy except we just--I don't know, we all click. There are reasons we don't want to be together, or whatever. You don't need to over complicate it. Humans want companionship, right? That's what you believe? Everyone wants to be touched or to love someone or connect with another human being or just feel anything, anything at all. It doesn't have to be complicated, and it's not as simple as what you think," Ryan explained, knowing full well he was rambling. He didn't consider himself a talkative person, but fuck, he felt good.

What he didn't expect was silence. Brendon hadn't shut up since the moment he'd met him, and yet now he was silent, his eyes staring contemplatively forward as he reached a hand out to the ash tray in order to ash his joint.

He had to wonder what was going through his head. Disgust? Irritation? More confusion? Understanding? Of all people, Brendon should have understood Ryan's way of dealing with people. Brendon, after all, had no qualms with trying to humiliate someone just for not knowing who he was. Why was he suddenly taking the moral high ground above all this? 

"What about you. You don't have someone you love? Or someone that you value over anyone else? Are you as alone as you like to make yourself out to be?" Ryan chuckled softly, half-expecting Brendon to ignore him and just put the joint out on his arm in retaliation.

But instead he answered, the tone of his voice genuine, "No. I got into music really young, like in my teens. My love has been my work since I hit puberty. I've never had time to explore wanting a relationship or whatever the fuck. And I don't know, it never crossed my mind. I like fucking around, I like that when I walk into a room I know that everyone wants me and it's fun letting them think they can have me. Just--" He paused, as if he seemed to catch on to the fact that he was being too honest. Ryan wanted to beg him to continue, to get more glimpses of him that he could immortalize in paper so that he'd never have to let him go. 

"But doesn't that get kind of lonely? Not letting someone in? You put on this front and you're not at all like what you portray yourself to be. At all. Don't you want to know what it feels like to let someone in, to be vulnerable?" Ryan hated it just as much as Brendon, and he had to laugh quietly at himself. The blind leading the blind.

But Brendon's answer took him by surprise, his thoughts momentarily blanking.

"I'd like that," he spoke quietly, his voice threatening to be carried away with the wind.


	13. IWUTAMITL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh I'm so sorry about this late update. I took a spontaneous trip to NYC to see Kinky Boots (and I cried the entire time watching Brendon kill it up there) and hadn't had any time to bust this out. But it's here! And we're down to three chapters left. Whaaaat. Thank you so much for the kudos and the comments, you all have made writing this story so far a treat.

If there was ever a greater opportunity for him to learn a little bit about Brendon that he may or may not have divulged to anyone else, it certainly wasn't better than now. People had a tendency to be more honest with themselves when they were under the influence. Whether it was because they could blame it on whatever they indulged in or because there was some chemical imbalance between honesty and sobriety was something Ryan didn't care to research. Because in that moment, Brendon's guard was down. He could see it in his eyes, the distant, almost sad way he looked forward and his brows furrowed and made those worry lines appear on his forehead. He could see it in the way his shoulders slouched, no longer carrying the weight of his body like he owned the room but rather caving in on himself like he wanted to disappear. 

Brendon was vulnerable. When was a better time to strike than when someone was vulnerable?

But Ryan didn't consider himself a predator, even if he was finding it difficult to find words to press into Brendon. There was something almost unnerving about asking someone to open up when they weren't of a coherent mind or body. Yet Brendon was stubborn. He may not have known him long, nor did he really know him at all, but that much was obvious. Brendon wouldn't let anyone know anything abut himself unless he let them in, and it was clear that he didn't want to let anyone in. For whatever reason.

What a cliche, Ryan thought bitterly as he continued to stare openly at the man lounging beside him. A mystery antagonist that both frustrated and fascinated the protagonist. What was he in, some badly written young adult novel?

No, he'd know if he was. He'd written one before, after all. 

"What do you mean by that?" Ryan asked finally, Brendon's eyes snapping back at him like a rubber band wound too tight. He cleared his throat when he was offered no response, "That you'd like that. You don't believe in love, right? So why would you want something like a connection with someone. Don't you think that's a bit hypocritical? There's only romantic sentiment in that kind of a relationship. Loving someone, sharing your life with them and their life with yours. It's not carnal and it's not physical, it's emotional. Weren't you the one preaching about biology and instinct? You trying to say animals have cognitive thought? Emotions aren't chemical. You can't explain sadness, happiness. And don't give me that 'chemicals in the brain bull shit, either."

He knew he was ranting, and the way his index finger tapped incessantly against the arm of the lounge chair was indication enough for him that he was peaking. Not that he minded. Everything was fascinating, Brendon was fascinating. Probably the most fascinating thing he'd seen in his life. 

And the way he smiled at him like he knew some sort of secret? It was far too charming. The curl of his lips and that somewhat obnoxious yet endearing spark in his large eyes. He could see how dilated his pupils still were, how he fidgeted and couldn't seem to get comfortable as if he were unsure in his own skin. Brendon was just as high, even when Ryan had indulged far more. Oh, to have never tried cocaine before. 

"Do you wanna hear a story?" Brendon asked, the whites of his teeth flashing at Ryan. It reminded him of a shark before it closed it's teeth against it's prey.

"What kind of a story?" He asked, his tone far more suspicious than he had wanted to let on. 

Brendon simply turned to face him, resting his weight against his left side as he let his cheek rest against the arm of the chair as his legs dangled up off the ground. The way he rested made his cheek bulge out, the fullness of his lips that much apparent. Ryan knew he'd drawn attention to that portion of his face on purpose for the second time that night.

"I grew up the youngest of five. Big ol' Mormon family, y'know? And my siblings were all fairly older than me, y'know? So it wasn't like I could run around playing with them as a kid. We grew up in Utah before we moved to Vegas. Big family, little money, you know the whole spiel," he started off slowly, the way he kept laughing in between thoughts showing just how little he seemed to believe even himself. 

Vegas, though, Ryan thought. Funny that he had ties to that city. It was rare for him to meet anyone else from the desert in New York, mostly because those with desert blood in them tended to stay where the heat was dry. If it weren't for the atmosphere and the distance from his family, Ryan would have left Manhattan years ago to return to the heat. And based on the way Brendon's skin glittered with perspiration and how he kept pushing the sweat slicked hair from his face thanks to the humidity, he was willing to bet Brendon would have, too.

"Our parents love us, so it's not like I had a shitty childhood, really. Like, I was attached to my mom's hip at all times as a kid. Would you believe that I was probably the shyest kid you'd ever meet? I was that kid who burst into tears if they were away from their mom for too long. So I didn't have a lot of friends growing up, but I always wanted attention. Does that even make sense? Like, what the fuck?" Brendon burst out into a fit of nervous laughter, closing his eyes for only a brief moment as he shook his head.

His words were fragmented along with his thoughts. Ryan was sure that if Brendon were of sober mind and body, he'd be able to tell the story eloquently and with flair. The man was a performer, after all. But he liked this, better. The honesty and rawness of someone opening up that didn't know how and was afraid of making a fool of themselves. Of being judged or misunderstood. This wasn't a story Brendon was used to telling, that much was obvious. 

"So that was me as a kid. That awkward, quiet, weird kid that couldn't stand being away from mom for more than thirty feet. But--I don't know, I always wanted attention, in spite of all that? Like, I'd put on shows. I was loud. I didn't have an off button. Even though I hated being around people, I wanted their attention. Maybe that's just because of how much younger I was than my brothers and sisters or something, I don't know. But it felt nice. For people to acknowledge me, be like, 'Oh look at Brendon, he's putting on a show again. What a strange kid, how funny.' And people kind of just--Ate it up? It was the weirdest contradictory feeling I'd ever felt, y'know?"

"What was?" Ryan urged, afraid that if he didn't give some sort of vocalization that he was listening that Brendon would stop sharing all together and he'd be left wondering who this man truly was. 

But Brendon kept smiling, not once stopping in the telling his story, "Just--That feeling. Where you want people to notice you and love you but you also don't want them around. You're scared of them. What they could do, what they could mean to you, what if they leave. So I liked to perform when I was a kid. I'd sing and dance and play instruments and put on little skits all by myself and everyone would eat it up but they'd stay away, you know? And--I don't know. It's like I kind of confused this line between what affection and recognition was, if that makes any sense. If I wanted affection I had to perform, the two went hand in hand. That's how I got my attention in a dingy house in Vegas with four other kids and parents that worked full time jobs but worked their asses off to support their kids."

He leaned onto his back once more, the tone of his voice growing angry as he took another hit of his joint to calm his nerves. There was clearly so much going on in his head in terms of substances it was a miracle Brendon was forming a coherent sentence at all, let alone doing as well as he was with telling a story he wasn't used to sharing. 

An awkward kid who liked attention but was afraid of people. Ryan could picture that. But Brendon didn't seem shy anymore, he commanded every room he was in, at least from what Ryan had seen in--Fuck, how long had he been here? It would have been easier if he could find a clock. 

His interest, however, lied in Brendon as he was now. How did he reach the point that he was at now? 

"Have you ever dated anyone?" Ryan asked, choosing his words with care to get Brendon to spill.

The younger man laughed as he set the joint down, his arms stretching their way up as he groaned deep in his throat, a sliver of skin exposing itself just above the waistline of his jeans as his shirt rode high. Was he trying to distract Ryan, or simply suggest something? He wouldn't be surprised with either. 

"No. I've never dated anyone, never been 'in love,' or whatever the fuck. I started performing in bands when I was seventeen. Did the whole group dynamic. Fucked the guitarist and the drummer right before we blew up and was confused as hell when they got mad at me and the band split. I mean, it was just sex. I didn't tell either of them I was in love with them, you know? Then I was in two more bands after that, up until I was 24. Broke up the bands over 'creative differences' but really each time I'd just get bored and end up sleeping with someone in the group and piss everyone off. So, I decided bands weren't for me and went solo and here we are. I probably sound like a slut," his laugh grew louder as if he couldn't believe his own words. 

"That's not--" Ryan paused in his thought, instead holding back. No, that wasn't what he wanted to hear. He didn't care about his dynamics in his professional life. "What about people you've met? Strangers? People like that? Not just people you've had to work in close quarters with." 

Brendon shook his head still, "I said I never dated anyone before, didn't I? Never saw the point. I was too busy chasing a career since I graduated high school, you know? Didn't date anyone in high school. I never really--I never really clicked with people. It's stupid, this s stupid." He laughed again, the sound devoid of mirth but rather self-depreciating. Ryan knew that candor. It was the same laugh he'd use as a kid whenever he grew despondent over anything he wrote. A way of laughing off something that could potentially be humiliating.

So Brendon was opening up, but clearly even in his intoxicated state found it difficult to get over that wall he had built up so sturdily over two decades and change. It wasn't surprising, but it certainly left Ryan wanting more. 

"Keep going," he urged, his face no his tone of voice showing any indication that he was going to make fun of Brendon. The younger man stared at him, the usual boyish charm in his expression replaced with something a little more firm, more unsure. 

Brendon opened his mouth as if to say something but closed his mouth, instead clearing his throat. He continued, "I've never really had many friends, either. Or like, any, really. Just band mates, producers, people that I hung out with out of social necessity. When I was a kid it wasn't like I was off at all the cool parties or whatever the fuck. I mean, I was invited, sure. People have always liked me, I just--"

"Do you think you're better than everyone else?"

"What?" He laughed, the confused irritation on his face melting away to something much more amused. "No. Well, in some things. But it's not like I value myself over other people. They just--I don't know how to put it." 

"Scare you?" Ryan pressed on, his tongue poking out to wet his lips as he rolled over fully on his side to face Brendon. 

He shrugged. "You could say that. It's this kind of feeling in my chest when people get too close. Like, what could happen? What if they don't like me if they get to know me? What if they decide that I'm more interesting when they don't know me and they leave? I like this life I've built. I like having a revolving door of strangers in my home, on the bus when I'm touring. When I'm at a hotel or whatever the fuck. It's comforting, because there's always someone there. I can lock myself in my room when it's too much and when I'm ready to come out again, I just have to walk out and there's tons of people that have been dying to meet me. What's not to love about that? I fall asleep better when there's a ton of noise, anyway."

It was a rather narrow minded way of looking at human relationships, Ryan had deemed, but there was something childish and naive about it that made him want to reach out for him. But of course he didn't, he kept his hands on the arms of the lounge chair, the white of his knuckles showing from how tightly he held them. Was he trying to keep himself grounded in his own reality less he risk falling into Brendon's? 

Because it wasn't like he couldn't relate. Maybe not to the extreme Brendon had gone to keeo himself at arm's length with everyone he knew, but he could relate. Ryan couldn't hold a relationship if his life depended on it. People found him cold and harsh and callous, but that wasn't to say he didn't believe in love. Of course he did. He believed in it more than anything. 

So a philanderer sat on the balcony of one of the highest buildings in Uptown discussing the idea of love with a misanthrope. He smiled at the thought.

"So you always have people around? Even on tour? Isn't that daunting?" 

"In a way," Brendon sighed as he closed his eyes, letting his head lull back against the chair as his right leg continued to bounce incessantly in it's crooked position. "But this is the first time I haven't been touring in probably, what, three years? As soon as my album started getting traction my label just wanted to push me out as much as they could. Not that I really cared. It's rewarding, going out almost every night and hearing people scream your name. You can't be lonely when that's your life," the way he said it, though, left Ryan unconvinced. "But imagine that's your life for years and years. Just a tour bus and hotels and people screaming your name. Then you have to stop, have to make more music, have to stay put. The quiet? I can't stand the quiet," he motioned with his hand towards the ceiling where the party upstairs raged on in it's umpteenth hour. "That up there? That's the white noise that puts me to sleep every night. If i weren't for them I'd hit he bottle and I'm too pretty to die so soon from alcohol poisoning."

Ryan had to laugh at that, more so at the way Brendon smiled to himself as if he truly believed his words. It was the most he'd seen Brendon speak without some sort of ulterior motive, and as confusing as he found the man, he couldn't help but be drawn further in. He hated it, but it was very rare that he interacted with someone so strange yet captivating. 

But at the same time, it made his heart ache in a way he hadn't quite anticipated. He couldn't imagine being so desperate but afraid of people that he'd have to throw excessive parties in order to sleep at night. Sure, he indulged, himself. He slept better with a body next to him and when he didn't have that readily available, more often than not he'd hit the bottle. Maybe he could understand Brendon, sympathize with him a little more because they were two sides of the same coin. Similar, but different enough to make a difference. 

"Then you're recording your next album? Hopefully it won't be as superficial as the music I've heard already," Ryan was only half-teasing, the little scoff he had earned indication that Brendon wouldn't have taken offense to his statement either way. 

"Do you know what I'm most afraid of?"

"Commitment?" Ryan interjected with a little chuckle of his own. 

He knew he was being playful, wasn't taking Brendon quite so serious. But if he showed too much interest or too much like he cared what he had to say, Ryan had a feeling that Brendon would not hesitate to stop telling more and more about himself. This was a man who only showed people what he wanted them to see. Fortunately, Ryan had the upperhand of intoxication. Brendon couldn't handle his cocktail of liquor and drugs, whereas Ryan had been indulging since he was a teenager. Play coy and uninterested, and the rest will follow.

"Being forgotten," Brendon answered. "Just--Fading away, blowing out like a candle in the wind when I used to be on fire. I can't go back to being alone." His voice grew quieter, and Ryan didn't respond. It was probably the most vulnerable he had seen Brendon, something he hadn't expected with the disjointed and choppy way he had been answering all of his questions. 

But in the time he had known Brendon, however brief, he hadn't known him to be vulnerable. It had to leave him wondering if he was being sincere at all, if any of what he said was true or if he was simply playing on him and his sympathy and his blatant desire to know more, more, more. However skeptical he was, he could see it on Brendon's face. That sad, distant look in a man's eyes when they were genuinely afraid of something. Silence. What a strange thing to be afraid of. Being forgotten? Being nothing to anyone? He could understand that.

"Can I ask you a question?" 

"You already did."

"No, I mean--" Ryan laughed a bit, his head swirling with drink and drugs and Brendon as he tried to grab a hold of his train of thought. "Your home--"

"You can't move in, Ross," Brendon interjected, his tone teasing as the corners of his lips twitched playfully.

"No, you don't have any clocks. Anywhere. No on the appliances, on the walls. Fuck, I'm willing to wager you don't even have one on your phone, you probably go rid of it."

"I did," Brendon laughed, quirking a brow at him as if he didn't understand why he was being questioned about his lack of clocks. Didn't he see how weird that truly was?

"Why, then? Do you have a phobia of them?" Ryan asked, his brows furrowed together in agitation.

Brendon laughed a little harder as he sat up, and instead swung his legs over the side of the chair as he propped his chin in his palm. "No. I don't have clocks because I have no use for them. I don't believe in time. It's a social construct. If people need me or want me, they can get a hold of me."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Ryan laughed, the sound disbelieving. "What about for appointments? You're a celebrity. You have obligations and what not."

"What's it matter when I show up? If it's in thirty minutes or in three hundred minutes? I show up when it's necessary and the people around me guide me and lead the way. I follow. If I'm late, maybe that's the universe telling them that it's better to start at this time. I've never really liked this whole idea of an eight hour work day, of a nine to five, or you can't drink alcohol until after five o'clock. Who cares?" His eyes lit up, clearly the change of subject going in a direction that he preferred to discuss. Personal world views seemed much more compelling of a topic for Brendon compared to personal anecdotes.

"And the people you make late or you show up early for, they don't get angry with you?" Ryan asked, arching a brow. Was he even a real person, or was Brendon some sort of Manic Pixie Dream Girl concocted in his own disturbed fever dream? Either way, he was performing his function perfectly.

"Sure, of course they do. Who wouldn't? But then they get over it because the end result is always better than what they expected. I arrive precisely when I mean to and the universe figures everything out," Brendon explained with a wave of his hand. He stood up finally, able to walk in a straight line once again as he wandered over to the railing. With his chest dangling over the metal he looked down, Ryan squinting as the lights of the skyline dimmed him into a silhouette.

It was hard to believe Brendon had a job let alone one so lucrative with the way that he behaved. He couldn't name a single person that could conduct their lives in the way that Brendon did without somehow pissing someone off enough to end their career. But Brendon was charming, endearing, completely captivating. He could see fully where his reputation as impossible to work with came from, but if that were the case why did people continue to do it? Because whatever it was Brendon did, it worked. Somehow.

"I don't understand you," Ryan scoffed, still thrown by the entire philosophy of Brendon's existence. "So you don't believe in time and you don't believe in love. What do you believe in, Brendon Urie?"

He didn't know what he expected as an answer. Knowing Brendon, he could have very well said a number of things. Hell, he wouldn't have been surprised if the bastard looked at him and said the Lochness Monster. It was difficult to believe if Brendon's entire existence wasn't just some sort of gimmick. Again, Ryan found himself struggling with the sincerity of it all. He was an author, he adored books. He loved cinema. A good story was all he wanted in life, was all that he was left chasing well into his life years and years after he'd published something he now was ashamed to call his own. And here Brendon was, presenting him with something that seemed like it could only be straight out of a book or a movie.

A successful pop star that was afraid of people who didn't believe in love or time and wanted to be adored but at a distance. This couldn't be real. No amount of sincerity of expression or honesty in his voice could make him believe it. And in spite of Ryan trying to reason with himself that this all had to be an act, that Brendon was still angry and trying to get at him for not knowing who he was, and with all the convincing he was trying to give himself, he believed him. He did, he truly did. 

What a strange story to have and to be able to tell. Ryan held his breath. What could he possibly believe in that would surprise him?

There was a moment of silence between the both of them, before Brendon simply smiled and replied, "Myself."


	14. YSIWHTC

A muse. That's what Z had told him over the course of a near decade that Ryan had needed. Someone or something to inspire him and get the creative juices flowing, but that was almost impossible to find when nothing excited you anymore. He could go to all the parties and drink all the liquor and have all the sex he wanted, but nothing had ever felt sincere. There was a falseness that came with living in a bubble, because the lense from which you looked at was skewed. Like a funhouse mirror, that made you look skinnier and more attractive than you were. 

He could be as nasty as he wanted to the men and women that floated in and out of his life and Ryan would still be considered a catch because of this phenomenon. Money got you far, even more so when it kept pouring in since before you took your first breath. And so people treated you differently, no matter how nasty you were or how much you pretended not to care. When he had first started writing, it was because he had felt such overwhelming emotion that he had no idea how to get it out. Maybe that was the teenage hormones and the passions of a first romance that was to blame. Maybe that was why Ryan found it so difficult to write now, in the beginning of his thirties. Because it hadn't been since his first little puppy dog fit of love had he felt inspired to write. 

And this was the moment where he was supposed to say that now, on the second floor of some rich asshole's Manhattan apartment, he had found his muse. He should have felt that rush of spontaneous, sincere emotion that Romantics like Keates and Wordsworth waxed poetic about. Here was Brendon Urie, his Greecian Urn, his Auguries of Innocence, his Hellespont to swim across and use for his glory. 

But that wasn't the case. Instead he felt even more confused than he had since before he met the boy. His chest was tight, head heavy with the weight of a thousand questions and thoughts that he was sure would remain unanswered. What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say? Brendon did not believe in anything but himself. Not love nor time nor clocks nor--Christ, was he trying to be eccentric on person? Did he think it made him interesting? Because the pop star schtick was interesting enough. And yet here he was, smoking a joint in front of him with dark, challenging eyes with the New York skyline behind him. How dare this child make his city look ugly in comparison? How dare he carry himself as if he were the view to begin with?

"I--" And Brendon's eyes are on him again, dark chocolate locked with whiskey and suddenly Ryan can feel it. He can feel everything as intensely as Brendon seems to. He can taste the dirt in the air and smell the weed slowly burning against the boy's fingers and he can see the way those doe eyes are so dialated that they tremble. Is he going to cry? He looks so desperate, staring at Ryan with his parted lips and unwavering expression. 

No, his eyes aren't wet with tears. It's something different. It's something rawer. Ryan's seen that look before, in someone's eyes. A million times before, but never with such sincerity. Was Brendon Urie capable of being sincere? How was it possible that someone like this man could exist among them? Carrying himself like he was a God among mere humans. The hypocrisy of his own neurotic thoughts was not lost on him.

"I think you're incredibly childish and naive," Ryan finds his voice, amazed by how gruff and loud it sounds in his ears. It's as if he hadn't spoken in days and only by looking at Brendon had he found his voice, the smaller man's lips twitching at the right corner. Smile me for, damn it. 

"I think you're out of touched with reality and you don't understand how the real world works," Brendon retorts without skipping a beat, snuffing the joint out only to let the wind carry it away as he set it on the palm of his hand as if to dare the universe to take it. His dark hair seems to glitter like starlight as the wind toussles it, the reflection of the city lights both neon and fluroescent creating galaxies that Ryan so desperately wanted to reach out and destroy. 

And he does. Ryan made the first move, grabbing Brendon by his broad shoulders to pull him in tightly as his lips search his out ith the kind of desperation of a man who hadn't been kissed in decades. But he has, with multiple people up and down the spectrum of sexuality. He's kissed enough people to consider himself an expert on the subject, so why do his lips tremble against Brendon's, the smaller man's working against him with wet smacks and soft flicks of his tongue while Ryan moans openly into his mouth. It's like Brendon's mouth is trying to reassure his, pull him in closer as he whispers soft words of encouragements into his desperately gasping mouth. It's a fucking kiss, there's nothing but hands in his hair and a warm body flushed to his person. He shouldn't be this desperate for it. He's came how many times since he's been awake?

But he can feel himself rock hard inside of his slacks, his cock straining against the fabric like he's sixteen again and the pretty cheerleader finally brushed his shoulder. When had he closed his eyes? When he opens them, he's met with Brendon's stare, his expression still unreadable and his motives unknown but God damn it, are they some pretty eyes. He wants to see those eyes look up at him in a different way. 

"I want to fuck you," Ryan has no time or beating around the bush. He's known what he's wanted since the little bitch showed up and yelled at him a few hours ago. Was it a few hours ago? Maybe it was just a few minutes. Nothing seemed to make sense around Brendon. 

"Then why aren't you?" Brendon was the first to make a move, his fingers making their way down to his pants as he pulls the material down over his hips. It takes every ounce of self-control Ryan has not to groan out loud when Brendon lets the material hang over his thighs and instead leaned over the rail of the balcony with his hips raised. He wanted to bruise those thighs, grab Brendon by his ass and spread him open and lavish him with his tongue until he's mewling pathetically for his cock. But if there's one thing that Ryan knows about sex at parties, it's that it's supposed to be rushed and messy and unsynchronized and entirely far from beautiful. Beauty could be considered another time, right now he just wanted to get off and make those pretty lips sigh his name.

"Are you used to bending over like that? You do it like a pro," Ryan teased him with a dry chuckle, his own hands working with his pants again to pull his own dick from between the open slit of his slacks. It's almost embarrassing how hard he already was, simply from the sexual tension that seemed to radiate between them. So much for whiskey dick or too many drugs. Ryan Ross was a fucking superhuman, he told himself. "You're not going to get anything on my pants this time around in this position. I think I like it."

Brendon only laughed, wiggling his hips from left to right in a playfully taunting fashion as he rested his cheek against his folded arms on the balcony. Ryan can see the goosebumps on his skin up close, and he has to wonder, is he cold or is he nervous? "You're taking too long, Ross," Brendon piped up his voice muffled into the skin of his arms. There's a tremble there, a kind of needy rawness that makes Ryan's throat constrict and his mouth run dry. It's beautiful.

"You need to be prepped," Ryan reminded him, the pads of his index and middle finger rubbing gently against Brendon's hole as the smaller of the pair gives a soft huff of frustration. It's enough to make Ryan chuckle, pushing the longe middle digit inside of Brendon with ease as he crooks it upward and listens to the desperate sigh he's earned. "Or maybe you don't. You've been fucked tonight already?" Ryan asked as he leaned forward, voice hot and heavy in the younger man's ear as he tapped his finger rhythmically against the bundle of nerves inside of him that has Brendon moaning outright and rolling his hips back like he's aching for more. 

"Yeah," he admitted without an ounce of shame, gripping the bars of his balcony with both hands as he easily fucks himself on the singular finger, both eyes closed in bliss now as Ryan watched the way his pretty cock twitched between those thick thighs. "Maybe an hour ago--Or two--Or three--Fuck, it was right before I found you."

It should have made Ryan jealous, but he doesn't feel that flame of anger that most people get. Instead he pulls his hand away, spitting lewdly onto his palm as he rubbed the saliva onto his own cock slowly with his eyes on Brendon. "Did you enjoy it?"

"As much as anyone else would have," Brendon answered as quickly as the question was posed to him, biting back a smile as he sat up a little more so he wasn't bent at a ninety degree angle. "You going to keep talking or are you going to put it in yet?"

"Slut," Ryan chuckled softly, placing one large hand on Brendon's hip to steady him while the other helped guide his cock into his already stretched hole. He keeps him spread open for him, leaning in again to spit once more against where Brendon's tight ring of muscle is resisting him to ease the glide just a little. Focused on the task at hand, he can hear Brendon's voice, the way he's grunting in discomfort and the little curses that tell him that he's certainly bigger than his last fuck. It makes Ryan smile. 

He's about three quarters of the way in when Brendon reached back, grabbing at Ryan's wrist to still him as he shakes his head. "Wait a second," he gasps out, his face flushed and rosy, little droplets of sweat decorating his brow with his knuckles nearly white from how tightly they gripped the balcony railing. 

"You're doing so good," Ryan encouraged him softly, moving his hand from his hip to gently stroke the small of Brendon's back soothingly. The way his walls clamp and twitch around his cock should be illegal, Ryan thankful for all of the substances in his system because he honestly wasn't sure if he'd be able to last more than a few pumps otherwise with Brendon bent over like he was. "Does it hurt?"

"Fuck no," Brendon laughed as if he's genuinely offended by the question, opening his eyes to glare over at Ryan from over his shoulder. "Your dick is just so fucking big you're pressing against my fucking spot already and I'm afraid I'm going to cum in thirty seconds like some virgin."

Ryan stared at him, dumbfonded, the comment far too hot for him to give Brendon any longer of a reprieve. Instead he grabbed hold of those hips to turn Brendon around, practically tossing him onto the lounge chair so he can get on top of him. It's only a matter of moments before he's pounding himself relentlessly into the willing body beneath him, Brendon's legs having found their way around his hips as his voice drowns out the sound of the party above them. There's a symmetry in their movements, a kind of artistic perfection that Ryan read about only in books. Like the eb and flow of the ocean, Brendon's hips rocking down towards Ryan's as the taller of the pair steadied himself on the lawn chair to fuck Brendon desperately. 

The sound of their skin slapping loudly against one another makes Ryan shutter, his eyes finding Brendon's like they always seemed to do no matter how hard he tried not to and fuck. There's nothing but pure awe in those eyes, wide-eyed and disbelieving as Brendon reached up to tangle his fingers in the wavy locks of Ryan's hair. He seemed confused, but the feeling was quickly washed away with a cry of delight as Ryan managed to bottom out inside of him, his sac smacking against Brendon's out stretched hole as he chanted the older man's name like a prayer. And maybe he was praying to him. Ryan wanted Brendon to believe in him like a God that he most certainly didn't believe in. He wanted to be added to those list of things that Brendon considered real. 

"Don't cum in me," Brendon gasps out, his moans choking out his own voice as he reached a hand between their sweat slicked abdomens to stroke his own cock. Ryan could tell he was close, there was no way he wasn't when Ryan was on the brink of spilling his own load. 

But he can't stop now, nor does he want to pull out. Instead he just fucks him harder, the rickety furniture beneath scratching loudly on the concrete and with a few more desperate pumps Ryan spilled himself deep inside of Brendon, the smaller of the pair moaning loudly as he finishes almost in unison, making a mess of his and Ryan's shirt. Only this time Ryan doesn't care that his clothing is in a state of disarray. 

There's a kind of strange electricity in Ryan's veins as he pulls out, looking down at Brendon as he watched the man try to catch his breath. He didn't bother to close his legs, his chest heaving and hair sticking to his face with sweat as he stared up at Ryan with an equally dazed expression. His fingers reach between his thighs, Brendon groaning softly at the feeling of Ryan's cum slowly dribbling out of him as he drapes an arm over his eyes. Ryan can see streaks of red and pink and orange and purple decorating Brendon's skin and fuck, he's so bright. He's so fucking bright. Too bright. 

"Maybe now you'll remember me," Ryan finds himself saying, his body moving on autopilot as he stood up and walked back inside, the sun peeking up over the Manhattan skyline behind him.


	15. BYMILSE

Everything was too loud. Were there more people here? It certainly felt like it. He couldn't move an inch without someone pressed up against him and he was starting to think that it may be intentional. Why so many people were still in the apartment, drunk and high and in various states of undress, was something he'd ask himself for weeks to come. The sun had begun to rise and yet everything in the upper apartment felt so dark. The music still thrummed in his ears, his eyes squinting in the dimly lit rooms in hopes of finding Z or Dan or anyone that would get him the hell out of here. 

Of course he could have left alone, but there was this strange nagging in his head that said he wanted to sleep in someone else's bed tonight. A longing for a non-committal cuddle and the sound of soft breaths lulling him to sleep. He could turn around. He could go back upstairs. He could ask Brendon when was the last time he slept because frankly he was starting to believe he hadn't in days. It would have been so easy, but his feet carried him forward and further away from the man he'd left downstairs. 

It's Z that he finds first, the petite woman hard to miss even as she stood in the center of a large group, waving her hands excitedly as she spoke with passion and excitement. Still coked out, Ryan thought to himself as he swooped in to steal her attention, guiding her by her waist away from her eager public. Z commanded attention, no matter where she was. 

"This party isn't dying down at all!" Z laughed in genuine awe, clearly amazed that this near week long bender seemed to have a life of it's own. 

"Yeah? Well, I am. Hard. Can we go?" Ryan argued, his voice short and blunt in that monotone way of his that somehow still left no room for disagreement despite his lack of inflection. 

Z quirked a fine brow in his direction but only had to take one look at Ryan's expression to understand. "I suppose I've tortured you with going out in public enough for one night. I'll text Dan to meet us in the lobby," she agreed, whipping out her phone in record time to send a text as she beckoned Ryan to follow her out towards the exit. 

The elevator music was a welcome change to the blaring cacophony of yelling voices and music with too much bass. He could feel his migraine behind his eyes, thrumming dully in tune to the vibrations from the party still raging on, Ryan pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to prolong the pain from peeking 

"What happened to Brendon?" Z asked, cigarette between her fingers as she prepared to face the cold air of dawn. 

"He went to bed." Did he, though? Ryan had no idea. He hadn't looked back at him when he had left. He had just thrown his words back into his face and walked out, fixing his clothes on the way out. Half of him had expected Brendon to follow him like a lost puppy, or to have come after him in a rage the same way Ryan had. But he didn't see him when he had been searching for Z, and there were no loud cheers to indicate that another group had stolen his much desired attention. 

The ding of the elevator pulled him from his thoughts, Ryan giving a soft scoff as they're immediately greeted by Dan's presence. "How'd you get down here so fast?" Z asked in genuine surprise, flicking the tall Texan against his nose as she exited the elevator with Ryan in tow. 

"You call and I answer, ma'am. I can't help it if I follow directions too well for you," Dan countered with that charming smile of his, slipping both arms around either waist of both Z and Ryan as he wiggled his way into the middle and urged them forward. 

Ryan focused on the way Z's heels clicked against the floor of the lobby, click clacking away. It was enough to make him laugh. She sounded like a clock, counting down the hours until midnight. Or maybe from midnight. What time was it now? He lifted his wrist to look at his watch, laughing again at what it read. 5:15 in the morning? Jesus. He had wanted to get home hours ago and yet here they were, finally leaving the far too ritzy apartment of a neurotic pop star. 

"What's so funny?" Dan pulled Ryan into the conversation, hailing a taxi for the trio in the process. 

"Z's shoes. She sounds like a clock," he answered in between exhausted giggles, smiling to himself still. 

"How high, Ryro?" Z chimed in with a knowing hum, smiling despite how completely gone Ryan must have been. 

"Very," Ryan agreed, resting his head on Dan's shoulder as he shut his eyes. But he wasn't high, at least he didn't think he was. He had come down a while ago. Maybe it was sleep exhaustion, or maybe he was still a little drunk. Or maybe he was s used to hearing Brendon's stupid little laugh that he was supplementing it with one of his own.

As soon as Dan got a cab to stop, he was quick to usher both Ryan and Z inside before finally getting in, himself. It filled Ryan with a sese of relief when Dan gave the driver the cross-streets for Ryan's apartment, glad that Dan was on the same page as him. A giant cuddle pile with his favorite people sounded like a welcome break from the nonsense going on in his head. Would Brendon have joined? No. He wouldn't. Because he wouldn't have been invited in the first place. Ryan didn't care. 

He kept his head resting on Dan's shoulder again, allowing his eyes to fall shut before a set of fingers were in his hair. The feel of acrylic let him know it was Z, the woman scratching through his scalp and down to the base of his neck like she would a dog or a cat. It was comforting, though, Ryan letting out a soft breath of approval as the attention eased the aching in his head. 

"Do you feel inspired at all?" Z's voice was soft and gentle, curious even. It wasn't loud and excitable and cocky like the one he'd been listening to all night. 

"No," Ryan answered simply, feeling Dan's body shake with laughter at his answer.

But it was the truth. He didn't feel inspired. He felt... Confused. Like he didn't understand where he was supposed to go from here. What was he supposed to do? Write a book after one party with an eccentric host? Base a character off of Brendon? Have him fine the book? See himself in the character? Fall madly in love? Ridiculous. It was one party slightly unlike all of the other ones he'd ever attended. Sure, his brain was racing, and yes, he had that restless itching under his skin like he had the first time he had sat down to write. But this wasn't the same. This was... He didn't know what the fuck this was. 

"I would have figured with the weird company you took all night that you would have had tons of inspiring material," Dan interjected, the jealousy in his voice not going unnoticed but also not acknowledged. 

"One person isn't going to cure my writers block. I meet people every day. Why would this one be any different?" Ryan argued as he sat up in his seat, opening his eyes to shoot a glare in Dan's direction. 

Not even even if he had two different apartments with only one personable room, did not believe in owning a fucking clock, or in love, or didn't sleep, or was incredibly egotistical, or spit his damn load on the front of Ryan's slacks. No. Brendon was not any different. 

"You're hopeless, love," Z sighed, the smile on her lips almost knowing. 

Maybe he was.


	16. Good Mourning

"I haven't heard your music, honestly. But I bet that's a good thing. Everything they play here is formulaiac garbage so for you to have made something I haven't heard usually means it's probably good. I'll try and give it a listen, what's the album called?

When I heard your message I had to listen to it four times to really process who you were. You didn't even give me your name. Did you think I had your number or something? Pretentious brat. Always assuming people know your name, still?

\--I'm kidding. 

How long has it been? A year? Year and a half? I heard your party finally ended the day I left. Coincidence? Z and Dan liked to brag that I broke you but it just seems like you went back to work and didn't have much time for parties. 

Are you less lonely on the road? 

Were the initials G.R.R? Come on, Bren. Use your head. Thanks for insulting my first book instead of praising it up the ass like everyone else I know. 

I have a new book coming out next month, actually. You might like it. It's about a girl who doesn't believe in time even though she acts like it's always running out. That's a little vague, isn't it? It sounds so stupid saying it outloud. It's called "300 Minutes." If you even like reading. 

Is the sun coming up for you? 

Do you still not believe in love?

...

I'm not sure what I believe in, anymore. I haven't, really. Not since I met you. I thought that you'd find me out, but you didn't. You just--You carried on and that was that. Maybe I'm just a romantic or it's the writer in me, but I expected this--I don't know. This grand kind of reunion or something. But we knew each other for what, five hours? And yet you managed to shake everything about me.

In a good way, no offense.

I just--

I'm working on believing in myself. I think that's a good place to start."

To delete this message, press one, to play this message again, press two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyyyyyy it's done (this took forever to finish because I literally lost so much steam). But it's done! I've got a few ideas for a new story. Either something fantasy based or another slice of life piece. Who knows. We'll see!
> 
> Thanks for hanging, folks.


End file.
